























K AVA N A G H 


OTHER PIECES 


BY 

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 

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BOSTON 

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 

New York: 11 East Seventeenth Street 

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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, 
BV HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, 

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The Riverside Press^ Cambridge^ Mass., U. S. A, 
Printed by H. O. Houghton & Company. 

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CONTENTS 



Page 

KAVANAGH 5 

DRIFT-WOOD. 

Ancient French Romances . . • . 3 

Frithiof’s Saga 53 

Twice-Told Tales 115 

The Great Metropolis . . . . 123 

Anglo-Saxon Literature 129 

Paris in the Seventeenth Century . . 163 

Table-Talk 172 



K AVAN AGH 

A TALE 


The flighty purpose never is o’ertook, 
Unless the deed go with it. 


Shakespeare 






tu 


K AVAN AGH 


I. 


REAT men stand like solitary towers 



VJ in the city of God, and secret passages 
running deep beneath external nature give 
their thoughts intercourse with higher intelli- 
gences, which strengthens and consoles them, 
and of which the laborers on the surface do 
not even dream ! 

Some such thought as this was floating 
vaguely through the brain of Mr. Churchill, 
as he closed his school-house door behind 
him ; and if in any degree he applied it to 
himself, it may 'perhaps be pardoned in a 
dreamy, poetic man like him ; for we judge 
ourselves by what we feel capable of doing, 
while others judge us by what we have al- 
ready done. And moreover his wife consid- 
ered him equal to great things. To the people 
in the village, he was the schoolmaster, and 


8 


Kavanagh 


nothing more. They beheld in his form 
and countenance no outward sign of the di- 
vinity within. They saw him daily moiling 
and delving in the common path, like a bee- 
tle, and little thought that underneath that 
hard and cold exterior, lay folded delicate 
golden wings, wherewith, when the heat of 
day was over, he soared and revelled in the 
pleasant evening air. 

To-day he was soaring and revelling be- 
fore the sun had set ; for it was Saturday. 
With a feeling of infinite relief he left behind 
him the empty school-house, into which the 
hot sun of a September afternoon was pour- 
ing. All the bright young faces were gone ; 
all the impatient little hearts were gone ; all 
the fresh voices, shrill, but musical with the 
melody of childhood were gone ; and the late- 
ly busy realm was given up to silence, and the 
dusty sunshine, and the old gray flies, that 
buzzed and bumped their heads against the 
window-panes. The sound of the outer door, 
creaking on its hebdomadal hinges, was like a 
sentinel’s challenge, to which the key growled 
responsive in the lock ; and the master, cast- 
ing a furtive glance at the last caricature of 
himself in red chalk on the wooden fence close 


A Tale 


9 


by, entered with a light step the solemn av- 
enue of pines that led to the margin of the 
river. 

At first his step was quick and nervous ; and 
he swung his cane as if aiming blows at some in- 
visible and retreating enemy. Though a meek 
man, there were moments when he remembered 
with bitterness the unjust reproaches of fathers 
and their insulting words ; and then he fought 
imaginary battles with people out of sight, and 
struck them to the ground, and trampled upon 
them ; for Mr. Churchill was not exempt from 
the weakness of human nature, nor the cus- 
tomary vexations of a schoolmaster s . life. 
Unruly sons and unreasonable fathers did 
sometimes embitter his else sweet days and 
nights. But as he walked, his step grew 
slower, and his heart calmer. The coolness 
and shadows of the great trees comforted and 
satisfied him, and he heard the voice of the 
wind as it were the voice of spirits calling 
around him in the air. So that when he 
emerged from the black woodlands into the 
meadows by the river’s side, all his cares were 
forgotten. 

He lay down for a moment under a syca- 
more, and thought of the Roman Consul Li- 

I* 


lo Kavanagh 

cinius, passing a night with eighteen of his 
followers in the hollow trunk of the great 
Lycian plane-tree. From the branches over- 
head the falling seeds were wafted away 
through the soft air on plumy tufts of down. 
The continuous murmur of the leaves and of 
the swift-running stream seemed rather to 
deepen than disturb the pleasing solitude and 
silence of the place; and for a moment he 
imagined himself far away in the broad prai- 
ries of the West, and lying beneath the luxu- 
riant trees that overhang the banks of the 
Wabash and the Kaskaskia. He saw the 
sturgeon leap from the river, and flash for 
a moment in the sunshine. Then a flock of 
wild-fowl flew across the sky towards the 
sea-mist that was rising slowly in the east ; 
and his soul seemed to float away on the riv- 
er’s current, till he had glided far out into 
the measureless sea, and the sound of the 
wind among the leaves was no longer the 
sound of the wind, but of the sea. 

■Nature had made Mr. Churchill a poet, but 
destiny made him a schoolmaster. This pro- 
duced a discord between his outward and his 
inward existence. Life presented itself to him 
like the Sphinx, with its perpetual riddle of 


A Tale 


1 1 

the real and the ideal. To the solution of this 
dark problem he devoted his days and his 
nights. He was forced to teach grammar 
when he would fain have written poems ; and 
from day to day, and from year to year, the 
trivial things of life postponed the great de- 
signs, which he felt capable of accomplishing, 
but never had the resolute courage . to begin. 
Thus he dallied with his thoughts and with 
all things, and wasted his strength on trifles ; 
like the lazy sea, that plays with the peb- 
bles on its beach, but under the inspiration of 
the wind might lift great navies on its out- 
stretched palms, and toss them into the air 
as playthings. 

The evening came. The setting sun stretched 
his celestial rods of light across the level land- 
scape, and, like the Hebrew in Egypt, smote 
the rivers and the brooks and the ponds, and 
they became as blood. 

Mr. Churchill turned his steps homeward. 
He climbed the hill with the old windmill on 
its summit, and below him saw the lights of 
the village ; and around him the great land- 
scape sinking deeper and deeper into the sea 
of darkness. He passed an orchard. The air 
was filled with the odor of the fallen fruit, 


12 


Kavanagh 


which seemed to^ him as sweet as the fra- 
grance of the blossoms in June. A few steps 
farther brought him to an old and neglected 
graveyard ; and he paused a moment to look 
at the white gleaming stone, under which 
slumbered the old clergyman, who came into 
the village in the time of the Indian wars, 
and on which was recorded that for half a cen- 
tury he had been a painful preacher of the 
word.’’ He entered the village street, and in- 
terchanged a few words with Mr. Pendexter, 
the venerable divine, whom he found standing 
at his gate. He met, also, an ill-looking man, 
carrying so many old boots that he seemed 
literally buried in them ; and at intervals en- 
countered a stream of strong tobacco smoke, 
exhaled from the pipe of an Irish laborer, and 
pervading the damp evening air. At length 
he reached his own door. 


A Tale 


13 


II. 


HEN Mr. Churchill entered his study, 



^ ^ he found the lamp lighted, and his wife 
waiting for him. The wood fire was singing 
on the hearth like a grasshopper in the heat 
and silence of a summer noon ; and to his 
heart the chill autumnal evening became a 
summer noon. His wife turned towards him 
with looks of love in her joyous blue eyes ; 
and in the serene expression of her face he 
read the Divine beatitude, ‘‘ Blessed are the 
pure in heart.'' 

No sooner had he seated himself by the fire- 
side than the door was swung wide open, and 
on the threshold stood, with his legs apart, like 
a miniature colossus, a lovely, golden boy, 
about three years old, with long, light locks, 
and very red cheeks. After a moment's pause, 
he dashed forward into the room with a shout, 
and established himself in a large arm-chair, 
which he converted into a carrier's wagon, and 
over the back of which he urged forward his 


14 


Kavanagh 


imaginary horses. He was followed by Lucy, 
the maid of all work, bearing in her arms the 
baby, with large, round eyes, and no hair. In 
his mouth he held an India-rubber ring, and 
looked very much like a street-door knocker. 
He came down to say good night, but after he 
got down, could not say it ; not being able to 
say anything but a kind of explosive Papa ! 
He was then a good deal kissed and tormented 
in various ways, and finally sent off to bed 
blowing little bubbles with his mouth, — Lucy 
blessing his little heart, and asseverating that 
nobody could feed him in the night without 
loving him ; and that if the flies bit him any 
more she would pull out every tooth in their 
heads ! 

Then came Master Alfred’s hour of triumph 
and sovereign sway. The fire-light gleamed 
on his hard, red cheeks, and glanced ffom his 
liquid eyes, and small, white teeth. He piled 
his wagon full of books and papers, and dashed 
off to town at the top of his speed ; he deliv- 
ered and received parcels and letters, and 
played the post-boy’s horn with his lips. Then 
he climbed the back of the great chair, sang 
“ Sweep ho ! ” as from the top of a very high 
chimney, and, sliding down upon the cushion, 


A Tale 


15 


pretended to fall asleep in a little white bed, 
with white curtains ; from which imaginary 
slumber his father awoke him by crying in his 
ear, in mysterious tones, — 

What little boy is this ! ” 

Finally he sat down in his chair at his moth- 
er’s knee, and listened very attentively, and for 
the hundredth time, to the story of the dog 
Jumper, which was no sooner ended, than vo- 
ciferously called for again and again. On the 
fifth repetition, it was cut as short as the dog’s 
tail by Lucy, who, having put the baby to bed, 
now came for Master Alfred. He seemed to 
hope he had been forgotten, but was neverthe- 
less marched off without any particular regard 
to his feelings, and disappeared in a kind of 
abstracted mood, repeating softly to himself his 
father’s words, — 

“ Good night, Alfred ! ” 

His father looked fondly after him as he 
went up stairs, holding Lucy by one hand, 
and with the other rubbing the sleep out of 
his eyes. 

Ah ! these children, these children ! ” said 
Mr. Churchill, as he sat down at the tea-table ; 
‘^we ought to love them very much now, for 
we shall not have them long with us ! ” 


1 6 Kavanagh 

‘‘ Good heavens ! exclaimed his wife, ''what 
do you mean ? Does anything ail them ? Are 
they going to die ? / 

"I hope not. But they are going to grow 
up, and be no longer children.'' 

" O, you foolish man ! You gave me such a 
fright!" 

" And yet it seems impossible that they 
should ever grow to be men, and drag the 
heavy artillery along the dusty roads of life." 

" And I hope they never will. That is the 
last thing I want either of them to do." 

" O, I do not mean literally, only figurative- 
ly. By the way, speaking of growing up and 
growing old, I saw Mr. Pendexter this evening, 
as I came home." 

" And what had he to say I " 

"He told me he should preach his farewell 
sermon to-morrow." 

" Poor old man ! I really pity him." 

" So do I. But it must be confessed he is a 
dull preacher ; and I dare say it is as dull 
work for him as for his hearers." 

" Why are they going to send him away ? " 

"O, there are a great many reasons. He 
does not give time and attention enough to his 
sermons and to his parish. He is always at 


A Tale 


17 


work on his farm ; always wants his salary 
raised ; and insists upon his right to pasture 
his horse in the parish fields/' 

Hark ! " cried his wife, lifting up her face 
in a listening attitude. 

What is the matter ? ” 

“ I thought I heard the baby ! " 

. There was a short silence. Then Mr. 
Churchill said, — 

'Ht was only the cat in the cellar." 

At this moment Lucy came in. She hesi- 
tated a little, and then, in a submissive voice, 
asked leave to go down to the village to buy 
some ribbon for her bonnet. Lucy was a girl 
of fifteen, who had been taken a few years be- 
fore from an Orphan Asylum. Her dark eyes 
had a gypsy look, and she wore her brown hair 
twisted round her head after the manner of 
some of Murillo’s girls. She had Milesian 
blood in her veins, and was impetuous and im- 
patient of contradiction. 

When she had left the room, the school- 
master resumed the conversation by say- 
ing,— 

I do not like Lucy’s going out so much 
in the evening. I am afraid she will get into 
trouble. She is really very pretty.’’ 

B 


1 8 Kavanagh 

Then there was another pause, after which 
he added, — 

“My dear wife, one thing puzzles me ex- 
ceedingly. ” 

“And what is that ? ” 

“ It is to know what that man does with all 
the old boots he picks up about the village. 
I met him again this evening. He seemed to 
have as many feet as Briareus had hands. He 
is a kind of centipede.” 

“ But what has that to do with Lucy ? ” 

“Nothing. It only occurred to me at the 
moment ; and I never can imagine what he 
does with so many old boots.” 


A Tale 


19 


III. 


HEN tea was over, Mr. Churchill walked 



V V to and fro in his study, as his custom 
was. And as he walked, he gazed with secret 
rapture at the books, which lined the walls, 
and thought how many bleeding hearts and 
aching heads had found consolation for them- 
selves and imparted it to others, by writing 
those pages. The books seemed to him al- 
most as living beings, so instinct were they 
with human thoughts and sympathies. It was 
as if the authors themselves were gazing at 
him from the walls, with countenances neither 
sorrowful nor glad, but full of calm indifference 
to fate, like those of the poets who appeared to 
Dante in his vision, walking together on the 
I dolorous shore. And then he dreamed of 
fame, and thought that perhaps hereafter he 
might be in some degree, and to some one, 
what these men were to him ; and in the en- 
thusiasm of the moment he exclaimed aloud, — 


‘‘Would you have me be like these, dear 
Mary.?" 


20 Kavanagh 

“ Like these what ? ” asked his wife, not com- 
prehending him. 

“Like these great and good men, — like 
these scholars and poets, — the authors of all 
these books ! ” 

She pressed his hand and said, in a soft, but 
excited tone, — 

“ O, yes ! Like them, only perhaps better !’’ 

“ Then I will write a Romance ! ” 

“Write it!” said his wife, like the angel. 
For she believed that then he would become 
famous forever ; and that all the vexed and 
busy world would stand still to hear him blow 
his little trumpet, whose sound was to rend 
the adamantine walls of time, and reach the 
ears of a far-off and startled posterity. 


A Tale 


21 


IV. 

T WAS thinking to-day,” said Mr. Church- 

JL ill a few minutes afterwards, as he took 
some papers from a drawer scented with a 
quince, and arranged them on the study table, 
while his wife as usual seated herself opposite 
to him with her work in her hand, — ''I was 
thinking to-day how dull and prosaic the study 
of mathematics is made in our school-books ; 
as if the grand science of numbers had been 
discovered and perfected merely to further the 
purposes of trade.” 

‘^For my part,” answered his wife, “ I do not 
see how you can make mathematics poetical. 
There is no poetry in them.” 

Ah, that is a very great mistake ! There 
is something divine in the science of numbers. 
Like God, it holds the sea in the hollow of its 
hand. It measures the earth ; it weighs the 
stars ; it illumines the universe ; it is law, it is 
order, it is beauty. And yet we imagine — 
that is, most of us — that its highest end and 
culminating point is book-keeping by double 


22 Kavanagh 

entry. It is our way of teaching it that makes 
it so prosaic.” 

So saying, he arose, and went to one of his 
book-cases, from the shelf of which he took 
down a little old quarto volume, and laid it 
upon the table. 

“ Now here, ” he continued, “ is a book of 
mathematics of quite a different stamp from 
ours.” 

“ It looks very old. What is it ? ” 

“It is the Lilawati of Bhascara Acharya, 
translated from the Sanscrit.” 

“ It is a pretty name. Pray what does it 
mean ? ” 

“ Lilawati was the name of Bhascara’s 
daughter ; and the book was written to per- 
petuate it. Here is an account of the whole 
matter.” 

He then opened the volume, and read as fol- 
lows ; — 

“ It is said that the composing of Lilawati 
was occasioned by the following circumstance. 
Lilawati was the name of the author’s daugh- 
ter, concerning whom it appeared, from the 
qualities of the Ascendant at her birth, that 
she was destined to pass her life unmarried, 
and to remain without children. The father 


A Tale 


23 


ascertained a lucky hour for contracting her 
in marriage, that she might be firmly connect- 
ed, and have children. It is said that, when 
that hour approached, he brought his daugh- 
ter and his intended son near him. He left 
the hour-cup on the vessel of water, and kept 
in attendance a time-knowing astrologer, in 
order that, when the cup should subside in the 
water, those two precious jewels should be uni- 
ted. But as the intended arrangement was 
not according to destiny, it happened that the 
girl, from a curiosity natural to children, looked 
into the cup to observe the water coming in at 
the hole ; when by chance a pearl separated 
from her bridal dress, fell into the cup, and, 
rolling down to the hole, stopped the influx of 
the water. So the astrologer waited in expec- 
tation of the promised hour. When the ope- 
ration of the cup had thus been delayed beyond 
all moderate time, the father was in consterna- 
tion, and examining, he found that a small 
pearl had stopped the course of the. water, and 
the long-expected hour was passed. In short, 
the father, thus disappointed, said to his un- 
fortunate daughter, I will write a book of your 
name, which shall remain to the latest times, 
— for a good name is a second life, and the 
groundwork of eternal existence.” 


24 


Kavanagh 


As the schoolmaster read, the eyes of his 
wife dilated and grew tender, and she said, — 
“ What a beautiful story ! When did it 
happen ? ” 

Seven hundred years ago, among the Hin- 
doos.” 

Why not write a poem about it } ” 
“Because it is already a poem of itself, — 
one of those things, of which the simplest state- 
ment is the best, and which lose by embellish- 
ment. The old Hindoo legend, brown with 
age, would not please me so well if decked in 
gay colors, and hung round with the tinkling 
bells of rhyme. Now hear how the book be- 
gins.” 

Again he read : — 

“Salutation to the elephant-headed Being 
who infuses joy into the minds of his worship- 
pers, who delivers from every difficulty those 
that call upon him, and whose feet are rever- 
enced by the gods ! — Reverence to Ganesa, 
who is beautiful as the pure purple lotos, and 
around whose neck the black curling snake 
winds itself in playful folds ! ” 

“ That sounds rather mystical,” said his wife. 
“Yes, the book begins with a salutation to 
the Hindoo deities, as the old Spanish Chron- 


A Tale 


25 


ides begin in the name of God, and the Holy 
Virgin. And now see how poetical some of 
the examples are.” 

He then turned over the leaves slowly and 
read, — 

One third of a collection of beautiful water- 
lilies is offered to Mahadev, one fifth to Huri, 
one sixth to the Sun, one fourth to Devi, and 
six which remain are presented to the spirit- 
ual teacher. Required the whole number of 
water-lilies.” 

“ That is very pretty,” said the wife, and 
would put it into the boys heads to bring you 
pond-lilies.” 

Here is a prettier one still. One fifth of a 
hive of bees flew to the Kadamba flower ; one 
third flew to the Silandhara ; three times the 
difference of these two numbers flew to an 
arbor ; and one bee continued flying about, 
attracted on each side by the fragrant Ketaki 
and the Malati. What was the number of the 
bees.?” 

I am sure I should never be able to tell.” 

‘‘Ten times the square root of a flock of 
geese ” 

Here Mrs. Churchill laughed aloud ; but he 
continued very gravely, — 


26 


Kavanagh 


“Ten times the square root of a flock of 
geese, seeing the clouds collect, flew to the 
Manus lake; one eighth of the whole flew 
from the edge of the water amongst a multi- 
tude of water-lilies ; and three couple were 
observed playing in the water. Tell me, my 
young girl with beautiful locks, what was the 
whole number of geese ? ■” 

“ Well, what was it } ” 

“ What should you think ? ” 

“About twenty.” 

“ No, one hundred and forty-four. Now try 
another. The square root of half a number 
of bees, and also eight ninths of the whole, 
alighted on the jasmines, and a female bee 
buzzed responsive to the hum of the male 
enclosed at night in a water-lily' O, beautiful 
damsel, tell me the number of bees.” 

“ That is not there. You made it.” 

“ No, indeed I did not. I wish I had made 
it. Look and see.” 

He showed her the book, and she read it 
herself. He then proposed some of the geo- 
metrical questions. 

“ In a lake the bud of a water-lily was 
observed, one span above the water, and when 
moved by the gentle breeze, it sank in the 


A Tale 


27 


water at two cubits’ distance. Required the 
depth of the water.” 

That is charming, but must be very diffi- 
cult. I could not answer it.” 

A tree one hundred cubits high is distant 
from a well two hundred cubits ; from this tree 
one monkey descends and goes to the well ; 
another monkey takes a leap upwards, and 
then descends by the hypothenuse ; and both 
pass over an equal space. Required the 
height . of the leap.” 

‘‘ I do not believe you can answer that 
question yourself, without looking into the 
book,” said the laughing wife, laying her hand 
over the solution. Try it.” 

With great pleasure, my dear child,” cried 
the confident schoolmaster, taking a pencil 
and paper. After making a few figures and 
calculations, he answered, — 

“ There, my young girl with beautiful locks, 
there is the answer, — forty cubits.” 

His wife removed her hand from the book, 
and then, clapping both in triumph, she ex- 
claimed, — 

No, you are wrong, you are wrong, my 
beautiful youth with a bee in your bonnet. It 
IS fifty cubits ! ” 


28 


Kavanagh 


Then I must have, made some mistake.” 

Of course you did. Your monkey did not 
jump high enough.” 

She signalized his mortifying defeat as if it 
had been a victory, by showering kisses, like 
roses, upon his forehead and cheeks, as he 
passed beneath the triumphal archway of her 
arms, trying in vain to articulate, — 

“ My dearest Lilawati, what is the whole 
number of the geese } ” 


A Tale 


29 


V. 

A fter extricating himself from this pleas- 
ing dilemma, he said, — 

‘‘But I am now going to write. I must 
really begin in sober earnest, or I shall never 
get anything finished. And you know I have 
so many things to do, so many books to write, 
that really I do not know where to begin. I 
think I will take up the Romance first.’’ 

“It will not make much difference, if you 
only begin ! ” 

“ That is true. I will not lose a moment.” 
“Did you answer Mr. Wainwright’s letter 
about the cottage bedstead } ” 

“ Dear me, no ! I forgot it entirely. That 
must be done first, or he will make it all 
wrong.” 

“And the young lady who sent you the 
poetry to look over and criticise ? ” 

“ No ; I have not had a single moment’s 
leisure. And there is Mr. Hanson, who wants 
to know about the cooking-range. Confound 
it ! there is always something interfering with 


30 


Kavanagh 


my Romance. However, I will despatch those 
matters very speedily.” 

And he began to write with great haste. 
For a while nothing was heard but the 
scratching of his pen. Then he said, proba- 
bly in connection with the cooking-range, — 
‘^One of the most convenient things in 
housekeeping is a ham. It is always ready, 
and always welcome. You can eat it with 
anything and without anything. It reminds 
me always of the great wild boar Scrimner, 
in the Northern Mythology, who is .killed 
every day for the gods to feast on in Val- 
halla, and comes to life again every night.” 

“ In that case, I should think the gods 
would have the nightmare,” said his wife. 

Perhaps they do.” 

And then another long silence, broken only 
by the skating of the swift pen over the sheet. 
Presently Mrs. Churchill said, — as if follow- 
ing out her own train of thought, while she 
•ceased plying her needle to bite off the 
thread, which women will sometimes do in 
spite of all that is said against it, — 

“ A man came here to-day, calling himself 
the agent of an extensive house in the needle 
trade. He left this sample, and said the drill 


A Tale 


31 


of the eye was superior to any other, and they 
are warranted not to cut the thread. He puts 
them at the wholesale price ; and if I do not 
like the sizes, he offers to exchange them for 
others, either sharps or betweens.” 

To this remark the abstracted schoolmaster 
vouchsafed no reply. He found his half-dozen 
letters not so easily answered, particularly that 
to the poetical young lady, and worked away 
busily at them. Finally they were finished 
and sealed ; and he looked up to his wife. 
She turned her eyes dreamily upon him. 
Slumber was hanging in their blue orbs, like 
snow in the heavens, ready to fall. It was 
quite late, and he said to her, — 

“ I am too tired, my charming Lilawati, and 
you too sleepy, to sit here any longer to- 
night. And, as I do not wish to begin my Ro- 
mance without having you at my side, so that 
I can read detached passages to you as I write, 
I will put it off till to-morrow or the next day.” 

He watched his wife as she went up stairs 
with the light. It was a picture always new 
and always beautiful, and like a painting of 
Gherardo della Notte. As he followed her, he 
paused to look at the stars. The beauty of 
the heavens made his soul overflow. 


32 


Kavanagh 


‘‘How absolute/’ he exclaimed, “how abso- 
lute and omnipotent is the silence of the 
night ! And yet the stillness seems almost 
audible ! From all the measureless depths of 
air around us comes a half-sound, a half-whis- 
per, as if we could hear the crumbling and 
falling away of earth and all created things, 
in the great miracle of nature, decay and re- 
production, ever beginning, never ending, — 
the gradual lapse and running of the sand in 
the great hour-glass of Time ! ” 

In the night, Mr. Churchill had a singular 
dream. He thought himself in school, where 
he was reading Latin to his pupils. Suddenly 
all the genitive cases of the first declension 
began to make faces at him, and to laugh im- 
moderately ; and when he tried to lay hold of 
them, they jumped down into the ablative, and 
the circumflex accent assumed the form of a 
great moustache. Then the little village school- 
house was transformed into a vast and endless 
school-house of the world, stretching forward, 
form after form, through all the generations of 
coming time ; and on all the forms sat young 
men and old, reading and transcribing his Ro- 
mance, which now in his dream was completed, 
and smiling and passing it onward from one 


A Tale 


33 


to another, till at last the clock in the corner 
struck twelve, and the weights ran down with a 
strange, angry whirr, and the school broke up ; 
and the schoolmaster awoke to find this vision 
of fame only a dream, out of which his alarm- 
clock had aroused him at an untimely hour. 


34 


Kavanagh 


VI. 

M eanwhile, a different scene was tak- 
ing place at the parsonage. Mr. Pen- 
dexter had retired to his study to finish his 
farewell sermon. Silence reigned through the 
house. Sunday had already commenced there. 
The week ended with the setting of the sun, 
and the evening and the morning were the 
first day. 

The clergyman was interrupted in his labors 
by the old sexton, who called as usual for the 
key of the church. He was gently rebuked 
for coming so late, and excused himself by 
saying that his wife was worse. 

Poor woman ! ” said Mr. Pendexter ; “ has 
she her mind } 

‘‘Yes,'' answered the sexton, “as much as 
ever." 

• “ She has been ill a long time," continued 
the clergyman. “We have had prayers for 
her a great many Sundays." 

“ It is very true, sir," replied the sexton, 
mournfully ; “ I have given you a great deal 


A Tale 


35 

of trouble. But you need not pray for her 
any more. It is of no use.” 

Mr. Pendexter’s mind was in too fervid 
a state to notice the extreme and hopeless 
humility of his old parishioner, and the unin- 
tentional allusion to the inefficacy of his 
prayers. He pressed the old man’s hand 
warmly, and said, with much emotion, — 

“To-morrow is the last time that I shall 
preach in this parish, where I have preached 
for twenty-five years. But it is not the last 
time I shall pray for you and your family.” 

The sexton retired also much moved ; and 
the clergyman again resumed his task. His 
heart glowed and burned within him. Often 
his face flushed and his eyes filled with tears, 
so that he could not go on. Often he rose 
and paced the chamber to and fro, and wiped 
away the large drops that stood on his red 
and feverish forehead. 

At length the sermon was finished. He 
rose and looked out of the window. Slowly 
the clock struck twelve. He had not heard it 
strike before, since six. The moonlight sil- 
vered the distant hills, and lay, white almost 
as snow, on the frosty roofs of the village. Not 
a light could be seen at any window. 


36 


Kavanagk 


‘‘ Ungrateful people ! Could you not watch 
with me one hour ? exclaimed he, in that 
excited and bitter moment ; as if he had 
thought that on that solemn night the whole 
parish would have watched, while he was 
writing his farewell discourse. He pressed 
his hot brow against the window-pane to 
allay its fever ; and across the tremulous 
wavelets of the river the tranquil moon 
sent towards him a silvery shaft of light, like 
an angelic salutation. And the consoling 
thought came to him that not only this 
river, but all rivers and lakes, and the great 
sea itself, were flashing with this heavenly 
light, though he beheld it as a single ray 
only ; and that what to him were the dark 
waves were the dark providences of God, 
luminous to others, and even to himself should 
he change his position. 


A Tale 


37 


VIL 



‘HE morning came ; the dear, delicious, 


silent Sunday ; to the weary workman, 
both of brain and hand, the beloved day of 
rest. When the first bell rang, like a brazen 
mortar, it seemed from its gloomy fortress to 
bombard the village with bursting shells of 
sound, that exploded over the houses, shatter- 
ing the ears of all the parishioners and shak- 
ing the consciences of many. 

Mr. Pendexter was to preach his farewell 
sermon. The church was crowded, and only 
one person came late. It was a modest, meek 
girl, who stole silently up one of the side aisles, 
— not so silently, however, but that the pew- 
door creaked a little as she opened it ; and 
straightway a hundred heads were turned in 
that direction, although it was in the midst of 
the prayer. Old Mrs. Fairfield did not turn 
round, but she and her daughter looked at 
each other, and their bonnets made a paren- 
thesis in the prayer, within which one asked 
what that was, and the other replied, — 


38 Kavanagh 

It is only Alice Archer. She always 
comes late.*' 

Finally the long prayer was ended, and the 
congregation sat down, and the weary children 
— who are always restless during prayers, and 
had been for nearly half an hour twisting and 
turning, and standing first on one foot and 
then on the other, and hanging their heads 
over the backs of the pews, like tired colts 
looking into neighboring pastures — settled 
suddenly down, and subsided into something 
like rest. 

The sermon began, — such a sermon as had 
never been preached, or even heard of before. 
It brought many tears into the eyes of the 
pastor’s friends, and made the stoutest hearts 
among his foes quake with something like 
remorse. As he announced the text, ‘‘Yea, 
I think it meet as long as I am in this tab- 
ernacle to stir you up, by putting you in 
remembrance,” it seem.ed as if the apostle 
Peter himself, from whose pen the words 
first proceeded, were calling them to judg- 
ment. 

He began by giving a minute sketch of his 
ministry and the state of the parish, with all 
its troubles and dissensions, social, political. 


A Tale 


39 


and ecclesiastical. He concluded by thank- 
ing those ladies who had presented him with 
a black silk gown, and had been kind to his 
wife during her long illness ; — by apologizing 
for having neglected his own business, which 
was to study and preach, in order to attend to 
that of the parish, which was to support its 
minister, — stating that his own shortcomings 
had been owing to theirs, which had driven 
him into the woods in winter and into the 
fields in summer ; — and finally by telling the 
congregation in general that they were so 
confirmed in their bad habits, that no refor- 
mation was to be expected in them under his 
ministry, and that to produce one would re- 
quire a greater exercise of Divine power than 
it did to create the world ; for in creating the 
world there had been no opposition, whereas, 
in their reformation, their own obstinacy and 
evil propensities, and self-seeking, and worldly^ 
mindedness, were all to be overcome ! 


40 


Kavanagh 


VIIL 


HEN Mr. Pendexter had finished his 



V V discourse, and pronounced his last ben- 
ediction upon a congregation to whose spirit- 
ual wants he had ministered for so many 
years, his people, now his no more, returned 
home in very various states of mind. Some 
were exasperated, others mortified, and others 
filled with pity. 

Among the last was Alice Archer, — a fair, 
delicate girl, whose whole life had been sad- 
dened by a too sensitive organization, and by 
somewhat untoward circumstances. She had 
a pale, transparent complexion, and large gray 
eyes, that seemed to see visions. Her figure 
was slight, almost fragile ; her hands white, 
slender, diaphanous. With these external traits 
her character was in unison. She was thought- 
ful, silent, susceptible ; often sad, often in tears, 
often lost in reveries. She led a lonely life 
with her mother, who was old, querulous, and 
nearly blind. She had herself inherited a pre- 
disposition to blindness ; and in her disease 


A Tale 


41 


there was this peculiarity, that she could see 
in Summer, but in Winter the power of vision 
failed her. 

The old house they lived in, with its four 
sickly Lombardy poplars in front, suggested 
gloomy and mournful thoughts. It was one of 
those houses that depress you as you enter, as 
if many persons had died in it, — sombre, des- 
olate, silent. The very, clock in the hall had a 
dismal sound, gasping and catching its breath 
at times, and striking the hour with a violent, 
determined blow, reminding one of Jael driv- 
ing the nail into the head of Sisera. 

One other inmate the house had, and only 
one. This was Sally Manchester, or Miss Sal- 
ly Manchester, as she preferred to be called ; 
an excellent chamber-maid and a very bad 
cook, for she served in both capacities. She 
was, indeed, an extraordinary woman, of large 
frame and masculine features ; — one of those 
who are born to work, and accept their in- 
heritance of toil as if it were play, and who 
consequently, in the language of domestic rec- 
ommendations, are usually styled “ a treasure, 
if you can get her.” A treasure she was to 
this family ; for she did all the housework, and 
in addition took care of the cow and the poul- 


42 


Kavanagh 


try, — occasionally venturing into the field of 
veterinary practice, and administering lamp- 
oil to the cock, when she thought he crowed 
hoarsely. She had on her forehead what is 
sometimes denominated a ‘‘ widow’s peak,” — 
that is to say, her hair grew down to a point 
in the middle ; and on Sundays she appeared 
at church in a blue poplin gown, with a large 
pink bow on what she called ‘‘the congre- 
gation side of her bonnet.” Her mind was 
strong, like her person ; her disposition not 
sweet, but, as is sometimes said of apples by 
way of recommendation, a pleasant sour. 

Such were the inmates of the gloomy house, 
— from which the last-mentioned frequently 
expressed her intention of retiring, being en- 
gaged to a travelling dentist, who, in filling 
her teeth with amalgam, had seized the op- 
portunity to fill a soft place in her heart with 
something still more dangerous and mercurial. 
The wedding-day had been from time to time 
postponed, and at length the family hoped and 
believed it never would come, — a wish pro- 
phetic of its own fulfilment. 

Almost the only sunshine that from without 
shone into the dark mansion came from the 
face of Cecilia Vaughan, the school-mate and 


A Tale 


43 


bosom-friend of Alice Archer. They were 
nearly of the same age, and had been drawn 
together by that mysterious power which 
discovers and selects friends for us in our 
childhood. They sat together in school ; they 
walked together after school ; they told each 
other their manifold secrets ; they wrote long 
and impassioned letters to each other in the 
evening ; in a word, they were in love with 
each other. It was, so to speak, a rehearsal 
in girlhood of the great drama of woman’s 
life. 


44 


Kavanagh 


IX. 


HE golden tints of Autumn now bright- 



-L ened the shrubbery around this melan- 
choly house, and took away something of 
its gloom. The four poplar trees seemed all 
ablaze, and flickered in the wind like huge 
torches. The little border of box filled the air 
with fragrance, and seemed to welcome the re- 
turn of Alice, as she ascended the steps, and 
entered the house with a lighter heart than 
usual. The brisk autumnal air had quickened 
her pulse and given a glow to her cheek. 

She found her mother alone in the parlor, 
seated in her large arm-chair. The warm sun 
streamed in at the uncurtained windows ; and 
lights and shadows from the leaves lay upon 
her face. She turned her head as Alice en- 
tered, and said, — 

' “ Who is it ? Is it you, Alice ? ” 

“Yes, it is I, mother.” 

“ Where have you been so long ” 

“ I have been nowhere, dear mother. I 
have come directly horhe from church.” 


A Tale 


45 


" How long it seems to me ! It is very late. 
It is growing quite dark. I was just going to 
call for the lights.” 

“ Why, mother ! ” exclaimed Alice, in a 
startled tone ; “ what do you mean The 
sun is shining directly into your face ! ” 

“Impossible, my dear Alice. It is quite 
dark. I cannot see you. Where are you ? ” 
She leaned over her mother and kissed her. 
Both were silent, — both wept. They knew 
that the hour, so long looked forward to with 
dismay, had suddenly come. Mrs. Archer was 
blind ! 

This scene of sorrow was interrupted by the 
abrupt entrance of Sally Manchester. She, 
too, was in tears ; but she was weeping for 
her own affliction. In her hand she held an 
open letter, which she gave to Alice, exclaim- 
ing amid sobs, — 

“Read this. Miss Archer, and see how false 
man can be ! Never trust any man ! They 
are all alike ; they are all false — false — false ! ” 
Alice took the letter and read as follows : — 

“ It is with pleasure. Miss Manchester, I sit 
down to write you a few lines. I esteem you 
as highly as ever, but Providence has seemed 
to order and direct my thoughts and affections 


46 


Kavanagh 


to another, — one in ray own neighborhood. 
It was rather unexpected to me. Miss Man- 
chester, I suppose you are well aware that we, 
as professed Christians, ought to be resigned 
to our lot in this world. May God assist you, 
so that we may be prepared to join the great 
company in heaven. Your answer would be 
very desirable. I respect your virtue, and re- 
gard you as a friend. 

“Martin Cherryfield. 

“ P. S. The society is generally pretty good 
here, but the state of religion is quite low.” 

“That is a cruel letter, Sally,” said Alice, 
as she handed it back to her. “But we all 
have our troubles. That man is unworthy of 
you. Think no more about him.” 

“What is the matter.?” inquired Mrs. Archer, 
hearing the counsel given and the sobs with 
which it was received. “Sally, what is the 
matter .? ” 

Sally made no answer ; but Alice said, — 

“Mr. Cherryfield has fallen in love with 
somebody else.” 

“Is that all .? ” said Mrs. Archer, evidently 
relieved. “She ought to be very glad of it. 
Why does she want to be married .? She had 


A Tale 


47 


much better stay with us ; particularly now 
that I am blind/' 

When Sally heard this last word, she looked 
up in consternation. In a moment she forgot 
her own grief to sympathize with Alice and 
her mother. She wanted to do a thousand 
things at once ; — to go here ; — to send there ; 
— to get this and that ; — and particularly to 
call all the doctors in the neighborhood. Alice 
assured her it would be of no avail, though she 
finally consented that one should be sent for. 

Sally went in search of him. On her way, 
her thoughts reverted to herself ; and, to use 
her own phrase, “ she curbed in like a stage- 
horse,” as she walked. This state of haughty 
and offended pride continued for some hours 
after her return home. Later in the day, she 
assumed a decent composure, and requested 
that the man — she scorned to name him — 
might never again be mentioned in her hear- 
ing. Thus was her whole dream of felicity 
swept away by the tide of fate, as the nest of a 
ground-swallow by an inundation. It had been 
built too low to be secure. 

Some women, after a burst of passionate 
tears, are soft, gentle, affectionate ; a warm 
and genial air succeeds the rain. Others cleai 


48 


Kavanagh 


up cold, and are breezy, bleak, and dismal. 
Of the latter class was Sally Manchester. 
She became embittered against all men on 
account of one ; and was often heard to say 
that she thought women were fools to be mar- 
ried, and that, for one, she would not marry 
any man, let him be who he might, — not she ! 

The village doctor came. He was a large 
man, of the cheerful kind ; vigorous, florid, en- 
couraging ; and pervaded by an indiscriminate 
odor of drugs. Loud voice, large cane, thick 
boots ; — everything about him synonymous 
with noise. His presence in the sick-room 
was like martial music, — inspiriting, but loud. 
He seldom left it without saying to the pa- 
tient, “ I hope you will feel more comfortable 
to-morrow, ” or, “ When your fever leaves you, 
you will be better.” But, in this instance, he 
could not go so far. Even his hopefulness 
was not sufficient for the emergency. Mrs. 
Archer was blind, — beyond remedy, beyond 
hope, — irrevocably blind ! 


A Tale 


49 


X. 

O N the following morning, very early, as 
the schoolmaster stood at his door, in- 
haling the bright, wholesome air, and behold- 
ing the shadows of the rising sun, and the 
flashing dew-drops on the red vine-leaves, he 
heard the sound of wheels, and saw Mr. Pen- 
dexter and his wife drive down the village 
street in their old-fashioned chaise, known by 
all the boys in town as ‘‘ the ark.’' The old 
white horse, that for so many years had 
stamped at funerals, and gnawed the tops of 
so many posts, and imagined he killed so 
many flies because he wagged the stump of a 
tail, and, finally, had been the cause of so much 
discord in the parish, seemed now to make 
common cause with his master, and stepped as 
if endeavoring to shake the dust from his feet 
as he passed out of the ungrateful village. 
Under the axle-tree hung suspended a leather 
trunk ; and in the chaise, between the two oc- 
cupants, was a large bandbox which forced 
Mr. Pendexter to let his legs hang out of the 
3 


D 


50 


Kavanagh 


vehicle, and gave him the air of imitating the 
Scriptural behavior of his horse. Gravely and 
from a distance he saluted the schoolmaster, 
who saluted him in return, with a tear in his 
eye, that no man saw, but which, nevertheless, 
was not unseen. 

“ Farewell, poor old man ! ” said the school- 
master within himself, as he shut out the cold 
autumnal air, a.nd entered his comfortable 
study. “We are not worthy of thee, or we 
should have had thee with us forever. Go 
back again to the place of thy childhood, the 
scene of thine early labors and thine early 
love ; let thy days end where they began, and 
like the emblem of eternity, let the serpent of 
life coil itself round and take its tail into its 
mouth, and be still from all its hissings for ev- 
ermore ! I would not call thee back ; for it is 
better thou shouldst be where thou art, than 
amid the angry contentions of this little town.” 

Not all took leave of the old clergyman in so 
kindly a spirit. Indeed, there was a pretty 
general feeling of relief in the village, as when 
one gets rid of an ill-fitting garment, or old- 
fashioned hat, which one neither wishes to 
wear, nor is quite willing to throw away. 

Thus Mr. Pendexter departed from the vil- 


A Tale 


51 


lage. A few days afterwards he was seen at a 
fall training, or general muster of the militia, 
making a prayer on horseback, with his eyes 
wide open ; a performance in which he took 
evident delight, as it gave him an opportunity 
of going quite at large into some of the blood- 
iest campaigns of the ancient Hebrews. 


52 


Kavanagh 


XL 

F or a while the schoolmaster walked to 
and fro, looking at the gleam of the sun- 
shine on the carpet, and revelling in his day- 
dreams of unwritten books, and literary fame. 
With these day-dreams mingled confusedly the 
pattering of little feet, and the murmuring and 
cooing of his children overhead. His plans 
that morning, could he have executed them, 
would have filled a shelf in his library with po- 
ems and romances of his own creation. But 
suddenly the vision vanished ; and another 
from the actual world took its place. It was 
the canvas-covered cart of the butcher, that, 
like the flying wigwam of the Indian tale, flit- 
ted before his eyes. It drove up the yard and 
stopped at the back door ; and the poet felt 
that the sacred rest of Sunday, the God’s-truce 
■ with worldly cares, was once more at an end. 
A dark hand passed between him and the land 
of light. Suddenly closed the ivory gate of 
dreams, and the horn gate of every-day life 
opened, and he went forth to deal with the 
man of flesh and blood. 


A Tale 


53 


^‘Alas ! ” said he with a sigh ; ‘'and must my 
life, then, always be like the Sabbatical river of 
the Jews, flowing in full stream only on the 
seventh day, and sandy and arid all the rest ? 

Then he thought of his beautiful wife and 
children, and added, half aloud, — 

“ No ; not so ! Rather let me look upon the 
seven days of the week as the seven magic 
rings of Jarchas, each inscribed with the name 
of a separate planet, and each possessing a pe- 
culiar power ; — or, as the seven sacred and 
mysterious stones which the pilgrims of Mecca 
were forced to throw over their shoulders in 
the valleys of Menah and Akbah, cursing the 
devil and saying at each throw, ‘ God is 
great ! ’ 

He found Mr. Wilmerdings, the butcher, 
standing beside his cart, and surrounded by 
five cats, that had risen simultaneously on their 
hind legs, to receive their quotidian morning’s 
meal. Mr. Wilmerdings not only supplied the 
village with fresh provisions daily, but he like- 
wise weighed all the babies. There was hard- 
ly a child in town that had not hung beneath 
his steelyards, tied in a silk handkerchief, the 
movable weight above sliding along the notched 
beam from eight pounds to twelve. He was a 


54 


Kavanagh 


young man with a very fresh and rosy complex- 
ion, and every Monday morning he appeared 
dressed in an exceedingly white frock. He 
had lately married a milliner, who sold ‘‘ Dun- 
stable and eleven-braid, openwork and colored 
straws,’' and their bridal tour had been to a 
neighboring town to see a man hanged for 
murdering his wife. A pair of huge ox-horns 
branched from the gable of his slaughter- 
house ; and near it stood the great pits of the 
tannery, which all the school-boys thought 
were filled with blood ! 

Perhaps no two men could be more unlike 
than Mr. Churchill and Mr. Wilmerdings. 
Upon such a grating iron hinge opened the 
door of his daily life ; — opened into the school- 
room, the theatre of those life-long l abors, which 
theoretically are the most noble, and practical- 
ly the most vexatious in the woild. Toward 
this, as soon as breakfast was ovei, and he had 
played a while with his children, he directed 
his steps. On his way, he had many glimpses 
into the lovely realms of Nature, and one into 
those of Art, through the medium of a placard 
pasted against a wall. It was as follows : — 
The subscriber professes to take profiles, 
plain and shaded, which, viewed at right-an- 


A Tale 


55 


gles with the serious countenance, are war- 
ranted to be infallibly correct. 

''No trouble of adorning or dressing the per- 
son is required. He takes infants and children 
at sight, and has frames of all sizes to accom- 
modate. 

"A profile is a delineated outline of the ex- 
terior form of any person’s face and head, the 
use of which when seen tends to vivify the af- 
fections of those whom we esteem or love. 

William Bantam.” * 

Erelong even this glimpse into the ideal 
world had vanished ; and he felt himself bound 
to the earth with a hundred invisible threads, 
by which a hundred urchins were tugging and 
tormenting him ; and it was only with consid- 
erable effort, and at intervals, that his mind 
could soar to the moral dignity of his profes- 
sion. 

Such was the schoolmaster’s life; and a 
dreary, weary life it would have been, had not 
poetry from within gushed through every crack 
and crevice in it. This transformed it, and 
made it resemble a well, into which stones and 
rubbish have been thrown ; but underneath is 
a spring of fresh, pure water, which nothing 
external can ever check or defile. 


5 ^ 


Kavanagh 


XII. 

M r. PENDEXTER had departed. Only 
a few old and middle-aged people re- 
gretted him. To these few, something was 
wanting in the service ever afterwards. They 
missed the accounts of the Hebrew massacres, 
and the wonderful tales of the Zumzummims ; 
they missed the venerable gray hair, and the 
voice that had spoken to them in childhood, 
and forever preserved the memory of it in 
their hearts, as in the Russian Church the old 
hymns of the earliest centuries are still piously 
retained. 

The winter came, with all its affluence of 
snows, and its many candidates for the vacant 
pulpit. But the parish was difficult to please, 
as all parishes are ; and talked of dividing it- 
self, and building a new church, and other 
extravagances, as all parishes do. Finally it 
concluded to remain as it was, and the choice 
of a pastor was made. 

The events of the winter were few in num- 
ber, and can be easily described. The follow- 


A Tale 


57 


ing extract from a school-girl’s letter to an 
absent friend contains the most important : — 
^‘At school, things have gone on pretty 
much as usual. Jane Brown has grown very 
pale. They say she is in a consumption ; but I 
think it is because she eats so many slate-pen- 
cils. One of her shoulders has grown a good 
deal higher than the other. Billy Wilmerdings 
has been turned out of school for playing tru- 
ant. He promised his mother, if she would 
not whip him, he would experience religion. 
I am sure I wish he would ; for then he would 
stop looking at me through the hole in the top 
of his desk. Mr. Churchill is a very curious 
man. To-day he gave us this question in 
arithmetic : ‘ One fifth of a hive of bees flew 
to the Kadamba flower ; one third flew to 
the Silandhara ; three times the difference of 
these two numbers flew to an arbor ; and one 
bee continued flying about, attracted on each 
side by the fragrant Ketaki and the Malati. 
What was the number of bees.^’ Nobody 
could do the sum. 

The church has been repaired, and we 
have a new mahogany pulpit. Mr. Churchill 
bought the old one, and had it put up in his 
study. What a strange man he is ! A good 


58 


Kavanagh 


many candidates have preached for us. The 
only one we like is Mr. Kavanagh. Arthur 
Kavanagh ! is not that a romantic name } He 
is tall, very pale, with beautiful black eyes and 
hair ! Sally — Alice Archer’s Sally — says ' he 
is not a man ; he is a Thaddeus of Warsaw ! ’ 
I think he is very handsome. And such ser- 
mons ! So beautifully written, so different 
from old Mr. Pendexter’s ! He has been in- 
vited to settle here ; but he cannot come till 
Spring. Last Sunday he preached about the 
ruling passion. He said that once a German 
nobleman, when he was dying, had his hunt- 
ing-horn blown in his bed-room, and his 
hounds let in, springing and howling about 
him ; and that so it was with the ruling pas- 
sions of men ; even around the death-bed, at 
the well-known signal, they howled and leaped 
about those that had fostered them ! Beauti- 
ful, is it not 1 and so original ! He said in 
another sermon, that disappointments feed 
and nourish us in the desert places of life, 
as the ravens did the Prophet in the wilder- 
ness ; and that as, in Catholic countries, the 
lamps lighted before the images of saints, in 
narrow and dangerous streets, not only served 
as offerings of devotion, but likewise as lights 


A Tale 


59 


to those who passed, so, in the dark and dis- 
mal streets of the city of Unbelief, every good 
thought, word, and deed of a man, not only 
was an offering to heaven, but likewise served 
to light him and others on their way home- 
ward ! I have taken a good many notes of 
Mr. Kavanagh's sermons, which you shall see 
when you come back. 

‘‘Last week we had a sleigh-ride, with six 
white horses. We went like the wind over 
the hollows in the snow ; — the driver called 
them ‘thank-you-ma’ams,' because they made 
everybody bow. And such a frantic ball as 
we had at Beaverstock ! I wish you had been 
there ! We did not get home till two o’clock 
in the morning ; and the next day Hester 
Green’s minister asked her if she did not feel 
the fire of a certain place growing hot under 
her feet, while she was dancing ! 

“ The new fashionable boarding-school be- 
gins next week. The prospectus has been 
sent to our house. One of the regulations 
is, ‘Young ladies are not allowed to cross 
their benders in school ’ ! Papa says he never 
heard knees called so before. Old Mrs. Plain- 
field is gone at last. Just before she died, her 
Irish chamber-maid asked her if she wanted to 


6o 


Kavanagh 


be buried with her false teeth ! There has not 
been a single new engagement since you went 
away. But somebody asked me the other day 
if you were engaged to Mr. Pillsbury. I was 
very angry. Pillsbury, indeed ! He is old 
enough to be your father ! 

What a long, rambling letter I am writing 
you ! — and only because you will be so naugh- 
ty as to stay away and leave me all alone. If 
you could have seen the moon last night ! But 
what a goose lam! — as if you did not see it I 
Was it not glorious You cannot imagine, 
dearest, how every hour in the day I wish you 
were here with me. I know you would sym- 
pathize with all my feelings, which Hester 
does not at all. For, if I admire the moon, 
she says I am romantic, and, for her part, if 
there is anything she despises, it is the moon ! 
and that she prefers a snug, warm bed (O, hor- 
rible !) to all the moons in the universe 1 ” 


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6i 


XIII. 


HE events mentioned in this letter were 



JL the principal ones that occurred during 
the winter. The case of Billy Wilmerdings 
grew quite desperate. In vain did his father 
threaten and the schoolmaster expostulate ; 
he was only the more sullen and stubborn. 
In vain did his mother represent to his weary 
mind, that, if he did not study, the boys who 
knew the dead languages would throw stones 
at him in the street ; he only answered that he 
should like to see them try it. Till, finally, 
having lost many of his illusions, and having 
even discovered that his father was not the 
greatest man in the world, on the breaking up 
of the ice in the river, to his own infinite re- 
lief and that of the whole village, he departed 
on a coasting trip in a fore-and7aft schooner, 
which constituted the entire navigation of Fair- 
meadow. 

Mr. Churchill had really put up in his study 
the old white pulpit, shaped like a wine-glass. 
It served as a play-house for his children, who. 


62 


Kavanagh 


whether in it or out of it, daily preached to his 
heart, and were a living illustration of the way 
to enter into the kingdom of heaven. More- 
over, he himself made use of it externally as a 
note-book, recording his many meditations with 
a pencil on the white panels. The following 
will serve as a specimen of this pulpit elo- 
quence : — 

Morality without religion is only a kind of 
dead-reckoning, — an endeavor to find our 
place on a cloudy sea by measuring the dis- 
tance we have run, but without any observa- 
tion of the heavenly bodies. 

Many readers judge of the power of a book 
by the shock it gives their feelings, — as some 
savage tribes determine the power of muskets 
by their recoil ; that being considered best 
which fairly prostrates the purchaser. 

Men of genius are often dull and inert in 
society ; as the blazing meteor, when it de- 
scends to earth, is only a stone. 

The natural alone is permanent. Fantastic 
idols may be worshipped for a while ; but at 


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63 


length they are overturned by the continual 
and silent progress of Truth, as the grim stat- 
ues of Copan have been pushed from their 
pedestals by the growth of forest-trees, whose 
seeds were sown by the wind in the ruined 
walls. 

The every-day cares and duties, which men 
call drudgery, are the weights and counter- 
poises of the clock of time, giving its pendu- 
lum a true vibration, and its hands a regular 
motion ; and when they cease to hang upon 
the wheels, the pendulum no longer swings, 
the hands no longer move, the clock stands 
still. 

The same object, seen from the three differ- 
ent points of view, — the Past, the Present, 
and the Future, — often exhibits three differ- 
ent faces to us ; like those sign-boards over 
shop doors, which represent the face of a lion 
as we approach, of a man when we are in 
front, and of an ass when we have passed. 

In character, in manners, in style, in all 
things, the supreme excellence is simplicity. 


64 


Kavanagh 


With many readers, brilliancy of style passes 
for affluence of thought; they mistake but- 
tercups in the grass for immeasurable gold 
mines under ground. 

The motives and purposes of authors are not 
always so pure and high as, in the enthusiasm 
of youth, we sometimes imagine. To many 
the trumpet of fame is nothing but a tin horn 
to call them home, like laborers from the field, 
at dinner-time ; and they think themselves 
lucky to get the dinner. 

The rays of happiness, like those of light, 
are colorless when unbroken. 

Critics are sentinels in the grand army of 
letters, stationed at the corners of newspapers 
and reviews, to challenge every new author. 

The country is lyric, — the town dramatic. 
When mingled, they make the most perfect 
musical drama. 

Our passions never wholly die ; but in the 
last cantos of life’s romantic epos, they rise up 
again and do battle, like some of Ariosto’s he- 


A Tale 65 

roes, who have already been quietly interred, 
and ought to be turned to dust. 

This country is not priest-ridden, but press- 
ridden. 

Some critics have the habit of rowing up 
the Heliconian rivers with their backs turned, 
so as to see the landscape precisely as the 
poet did not see it. Others see faults in a 
book much larger than the book itself ; as 
Sancho Panza, with his eyes blinded, beheld 
from his wooden horse the earth no larger 
than a grain of mustard-seed, and the men 
and women on it as large as hazel-nuts. 

Like an inundation of the Indus is the 
course of Time. We look for the homes of 
our childhood, they are gone ; for the friends 
of our childhood, they are gone. The loves 
and animosities of youth, where are they ? 
Swept away like the camps that had been 
pitched in the sandy bed of the river. 

As no saint can be canonized until thf 
Devil’s Advocate has exposed all his evi 
deeds, and showed why he should not b( 


66 


Kavanagh 


made a saint, so no poet can take his station 
among the gods until the critics have said all 
that can be said against him. 

It is curious to note the old sea-margins of 
human thought ! Each subsiding century re- 
veals some new mystery ; we build where 
monsters used to hide themselves. 


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67 


XIV. 



T length the Spring came, and brought 


the birds, and the flowers, and Mr. Kav- 
anagh, the new clergyman, who was ordained 
with all the pomp and ceremony usual on such 
occasions. The opening of the season fur- 
nished also the theme of his first discourse, 
which some of the congregation thought very 
beautiful, and others very incomprehensible. 

Ah, how wonderful is the advent of the 
Spring ! — the great annual miracle of the 
blossoming of Aaron’s rod, repeated on myr- 
iads and myriads of branches ! — the gentle 
progression and growth of herbs, flowers, trees, 
— gentle, and yet irrepressible, — which no 
force can stay, no violence restrain, like love, 
that wins its way and cannot be withstood by 
any human power, because itself is divine pow- 
er. If Spring came but once a century, instead 
of once a year, or burst forth with the sound of 
an earthquake, and not in silence, what wonder 
and expectation would there be in all hearts to 
behold the miraculous change ! 


68 


Kavanagh 


But now the silent succession suggests noth- 
ing but necessity. To most men, only the ces- 
sation of the miracle would be miraculous, and 
the perpetual exercise of God’s power seems 
less wonderful than its withdrawal would be. 
We are like children who are astonished and 
delighted only by the second-hand of the clock, 
not by the hour-hand. 

Such was the train of thought with which 
Kavanagh commenced his sermon. And then, 
with deep solemnity and emotion, he proceeded 
to speak of the Spring of the soul, as from its 
cheerless wintry distance it turns nearer and 
nearer to the great Sun, and clothes its dry 
and withered branches anew with leaves and 
blossoms, unfolded from within itself, beneath 
the penetrating and irresistible influence. 

While delivering the discourse, Kavanagh 
had not succeeded so entirely in abstracting 
himself from all outward things as not to note 
in some degree its effect upon his hearers. 
As in modern times no applause is permitted 
in our churches, however moved the audience 
may be, and, consequently, no one dares wave 
his hat and shout, — Orthodox Chrysostom ! 
Thirteenth Apostle ! Worthy the Priesthood ! ’ 
as was done in the days of the Christian 


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69 


Fathers ; and, moreover, as no one after church 
spoke to him of his sermon, or of anything else, 
— he went home with rather a heavy heart, 
and a feeling of discouragement. One thing 
had cheered and consoled him. It was the 
pale countenance of a young girl, whose dark 
eyes had been fixed upon him during the whole 
discourse with unflagging interest and atten- 
tion. She sat alone in a pew near the pulpit. 
It was Alice Archer. Ah! could he have 
known how deeply sank his words into that 
simple heart, he might have shuddered with 
another kind of fear than that of not moving 
his audience sufficiently ! 


70 


Kavanagh 


XV. 


N the following morning Kavanagh sat 



musing upon his worldly affairs, and 
upon various little household arrangements 
which it would be necessary for him to make. 
To aid him in these, he had taken up the vil- 
lage paper, and was running over the columns 
of advertisements, — those narrow and crowded 
thoroughfares, in which the wants and wishes 
of humanity display themselves like mendi- 
cants without disguise. His eye ran hastily 
over the advantageous offers of the cheap 
tailors and the dealers in patent medicines. 
He wished neither to be clothed nor cured. 
In one place he saw that a young lady, per- 
fectly competent, desired to form a class of 
young mothers and nurses, and to instruct 
them in the art of talking to infants so as 
to interest and amuse them ; and in another, 
that the firemen of Fairmeadow wished well 
to those hostile editors who had called them 
gamblers, drunkards, and rioters, and hoped 
that they might be spared from that great 


A Tale 




fire which they were told could never be 
extinguished ! Finally, his eye rested on the 
advertisement of a carpet warehouse, in which 
the one-price system was strictly adhered to. 
It was farther stated that a discount would be 
made to clergymen on small salaries, feeble 
churches, and charitable institutions.” Think- 
ing that this was doubtless the place for one 
who united in himself two of these qualifica- 
tions for a discount, with a smile on his lips, 
he took his hat and sallied forth into the 
street. 

A few days previous, Kavanagh had dis- 
covered in the tower of the church a vacant 
room, which he had immediately determined 
to take possession of, and to convert into a 
study. From this retreat, through the four 
oval windows, fronting the four corners of the 
heavens, he could look down upon the streets, 
the roofs and gardens of the village, — on the 
winding river, the meadows, the farms, the 
distant blue mountains. Here he could sit 
and meditate, in that peculiar sense of seclu- 
sion and spiritual elevation, that entire separa- 
tion from the world below, which a chamber 
in a tower always gives. Here, uninterrupted 
and aloof from all intrusion, he could pour his 


72 


Kavanagh 


heart into those discourses, with which he 
hoped to reach and move the hearts of his 
parishioners. 

It was to furnish this retreat, that he went 
forth on the Monday morning after his first 
sermon. He was not long in procuring the 
few things needed, — the carpet, the table, the 
chairs, the shelves for books ; and was return- 
ing thoughtfully homeward, when his eye was 
caught by a sign-board on the corner of the 
street, inscribed Moses Merryweather, Dealer 
in Singing Birds, foreign and domestic.” He 
saw also a whole chamber-window transformed 
into a cage, in which sundry canary-birds, and 
others of a gayer plumage, were jargoning to- 
gether, like people in the market-places of 
foreign towns. At the sight of these old fa- 
vorites, a long slumbering passion awoke with- 
in him ; and he straightway ascended the dark 
wooden staircase, with the intent of enlivening 
his solitary room with the vivacity and songs 
of these captive ballad-singers. 

In a moment he found himself in a little 
room hung round with cages, roof and walls ; 
full of sunshine ; full of twitterings, cooings, 
and flutterings ; full of downy odors, suggest- 
ing nests, and dovecots, and distant islands 


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73 


inhabited only by birds. The taxidermist — 
the Selkirk of the sunny island — was not 
there ; but a young lady of noble mien, who 
was looking at an English goldfinch in a 
square cage with a portico, turned upon him, 
as he entered, a fair and beautiful face, shaded 
by long light locks, in which the sunshine 
seemed entangled, as among the boughs of 
trees. That face he had never seen before, 
and yet it seemed familiar to him ; and the 
added light in her large, celestial eyes, and the 
almost imperceptible expression that passed 
over her face, showed that she knew who he 
was. 

At the same moment the taxidermist pre- 
sented himself, coming from an inner room ; — 
a little man in gray, with spectacles upon his 
nose, holding in his hands, with wings and 
legs drawn close and smoothly together, like 
the green husks of the maize ear, a beautiful 
carrier-pigeon, who turned up first one bright 
eye and then the other, as if asking, “ What 
are you going to do with me now This si- 
lent inquiry was soon answered by Mr. Merry- 
weather, who said to the young lady, — 

“Here, Miss Vaughan, is the best carrier- 
pigeon in my whole collection. The real Co- 
4 


74 


Kavanagh 


lumba Tabullaria. He is about three years 
old, as you can see by his wattle.” 

“ A very pretty bird, ” said the lady ; “ and 
how shall I train it } ” 

“O, that is very easy. You have only to 
keep it shut up for a few days, well fed and 
well treated. Then take it in an open cage to 
the place you mean it to fly to, and do the 
same thing there. Afterwards it will give you 
no trouble ; it will always fly between those 
two places.” 

“ That, certainly, is not very difficult. At 
all events, I will make the trial. You may 
send the bird home to me. On what shall I 
feed it ? ” 

“ On any kind of grain, — barley and buck- 
wheat are best ; and remember to let it have 
a plenty of gravel in the bottom of its cage.” 

“ I will not forget. Send me the bird to- 
day, if possible.” 

With these words she departed, much too 
soon for Kavanagh, who was charmed with 
her form, her face, her voice ; and who, when 
left alone with the little taxidermist, felt that 
the momentary fascination of the place was 
gone. He heard no longer the singing of the 
birds ; he saw no longer their gay plumage ; 


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75 


and having speedily made the purchase of a 
canary and a cage, he likewise departed, think- 
ing of the carrier-pigeons of Bagdad, and the 
columbaries of Egypt, stationed at fixed inter- 
vals as relays and resting-places for the flying 
post. With an indefinable feeling of sadness, 
too, came wafted like a perfume through his 
memory those tender, melancholy lines of Ma- 
ria del Occidente : — 

“ And as the dove, to far Palmyra flying, 

From where her native founts of Antioch beam, 

Weary, exhausted, longing, panting, sighing, 

Lights sadly at the desert’s bitter stream ; 

So many a soul, o’er life’s drear desert faring, — 

Love’s pure, congenial spring unfound, unquaffed, — 
Suffers, recoils, then, thirsty and despairing 

Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest draught. ” 

Meanwhile, Mr. Merryweather, left to him- 
self, walked about his aviary, musing, and 
talking to his birds. Finally he paused before 
the tin cage of a gray African parrot, between 
which and himself there was a strong family 
likeness, and, giving it his finger to peck and 
perch upon, conversed with it in that peculiar 
dialect with which it had often made vocal the 
distant groves of Zanguebar. He then with- 
drew to the inner room, where he resumed his 


76 


Kavanagh 


labor of stuffing a cardinal grossbeak, saying 
to himself between whiles, — 

wonder what Miss Cecilia Vaughan 
means to do with a carrier-pigeon ! ’’ 

Some mysterious connection he had evi- 
dently established already between this pigeon 
and Mr. Kavanagh ; for, continuing his rev- 
ery, he said, half aloud, — 

‘‘ Of course she would never think of marry- 
ing a poor clergyman ! ” 


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77 


XVI, 


HE old family mansion of the Vaughans 



J- stood a little out of town, in the midst of 
a pleasant farm. The county road was not 
near enough to annoy ; and the rattling wheels 
and little clouds of dust seemed like friendly 
salutations from travellers as they passed. 
They spoke of safety and companionship, 
and took away all loneliness from the soli- 


tude. 


/ 


On three sides, the farm was enclosed by 
willow and alder hedges, and the flowing wall 
of a river ; nearer the house were groves 
clear of all underwood, with rocky knolls, and 
breezy bowers of beech ; and afar off the blue 
hills broke the horizon, creating secret long- 
ings for what lay beyond them, and Ailing the 
mind with pleasant thoughts of Prince Ras- 
selas and the Happy Valley. 

The house was one of the few old houses 
still standing in New England ; — a large, 
square building, with a portico in front, whose 
door in Summer time stood open from morn- 
ing until night. A pleasing stillness reigned 


78 


Kavanagh 


about it ; and soft gusts of pine-embalmed air, 
and distant cawings from the crow-haunted 
mountains, filled its airy and ample halls. 

In this old-fashioned house had Cecilia 
Vaughan grown up to maidenhood. The trav- 
elling shadows of the clouds on the hillsides, 
— the sudden Summer wind, that lifted the 
languid leaves, and rushed from field to field, 
from grove to grove, the forerunner of the 
rain, — and, most of all, the mysterious moun- 
tain, whose coolness was a perpetual invitation 
to her, and whose silence a perpetual fear, — 
fostered her dreamy and poetic temperament. 
Not less so did the reading of poetry and ro- 
mance in the long, silent, solitary winter even- 
ings. Her mother had been dead for many 
years, and the memory of that mother had 
become almost a religion to her. She recalled 
it incessantly ; and the reverential love which 
it inspired completely filled her soul with mel- 
ancholy delight. Her father was a kindly old 
man ; a judge in one of the courts ; dignified, 
affable, somewhat bent by his legal erudition, 
as a shelf is by the weight of the books upon 
it. His papers encumbered the study table ; 

. — his law books, the study floor. They seemed 
to shut out from his mind the lovely daughter, 
who had grown up to womanhood by his side, 


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79 


but almost without his recognition. Always 
affectionate, always indulgent, he left her to 
walk alone, without his stronger thought and 
firmer purpose to lean upon ; and though her 
education had been, on this account, somewhat 
desultory, and her imagination indulged in 
many dreams and vagaries, yet, on the whole, 
the result had been more favorable than in 
many cases where the process of instruction 
has been too diligently carried on, and where, 
as sometimes on the roofs of farm-houses and 
barns, the scaffolding has been left to deform 
the building. 

Cecilia's bosom-friend at school was Alice 
Archer ; and, after they left school, the love 
between them, and consequently the letters, 
rather increased than diminished. These two 
young hearts found not only a delight, but a 
necessity, in pouring forth their thoughts and 
feelings to each other ; and it was to facilitate 
this intercommunication, for whose exigencies 
the ordinary methods were now found inade- 
quate, that the carrier-pigeon had been pur- 
chased. He was to be the flying post ; their 
bedrooms the dove-cots, the pure and friendly 
columbaria. 

Endowed with youth, beauty, talent, fortune, 
and, moreover, with that indefinable fascina- 


8o 


Kavanagh 


tion which has no name, Cecilia Vaughan was 
not without lovers, avowed and unavowed ; — 
young men, who made an ostentatious display 
of their affection ; — boys, who treasured it in 
their bosoms, as something indescribably sweet 
and precious, perfuming all the chambers of 
the heart with its celestial fragrance. When- 
ever she returned from a visit to the city, some 
unknown youth of elegant manners and var- 
nished leather boots was sure to hover round 
the village inn for a few days, — was known to 
visit the Vaughans assiduously, and then si- 
lently to disappear, and be seen no more. Of 
course, nothing could be known of the secret 
history of such individuals ; but shrewd sur- 
mises were formed as to their designs and 
their destinies ; till finally, any well-dressed 
stranger, lingering in the village without os- 
tensible business, was set down as ''one of Miss 
Vaughan’s lovers.” 

In all this, what a contrast was there be- 
tween the two young friends ! The wealth of 
one and the poverty of the other were not so 
strikingly at variance, as this affluence and 
refluence of love. To the one, so much was 
given that she became regardless of the gift ; 
from the other, so much withheld, that, if pos- 
sible, she exaggerated its importance. 


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8i 


XVII. 

T N addition to these transient lovers, who 
J- were but birds of passage, winging their 
way, in an incredibly short space of time, from 
the torrid to the frigid zone, there was in the 
village a domestic and resident adorer, whose 
love for himself, for Miss Vaughan, and for the 
beautiful, had transformed his name from Hi- 
ram A. Hawkins to H. Adolphus Hawkins. 
He was a dealer in English linens and car- 
pets; — a profession which of itself fills the 
mind with ideas of domestic comfort. His 
waistcoats were made like Lord Melbourne’s 
in the illustrated English papers, and his shiny 
hair went off to the left in a superb sweep, like 
the hand-rail of a banister. He wore many 
rings on his fingers, and several breastpins and 
gold chains disposed about his person. On all 
his bland physiognomy was stamped, as on 
some of his linens, “ Soft finish for family use.” 
Everything about him spoke the lady’s man. 
He was, in fact, a perfect ring-dove ; and, like 
the rest of his species, always walked up to the 
4* F 


82 


Kavanagh 


female, and, bowing his head, swelled out his 
white crop, and uttered a very plaintive mur- 
mur. 

Moreover, Mr. H. Adolphus Hawkins was a 
poet, — so much a poet, that, as his sister fre- 
quently remarked, he ‘‘ spoke blank verse in 
the bosom of his family.” The general tone 
of his productions was sad, desponding, per- 
haps slightly morbid. How could it be other- 
wise with the writings of one who had never 
been the world’s friend, nor the world his ? 
who looked upon himself as a pyramid of 
mind on the dark desert of despair”.^ and 
who, at the age of twenty-five, had drunk the 
bitter draught of life to the dregs, and dashed 
the goblet down } His productions were pub- 
lished in the Poet’s Corner of the Fairmeadow 
Advertiser ; and it was a relief to know, that, 
in private life, as his sister remarked, he was 
by no means the censorious and moody per- 
son some of his writings might imply.” 

Such was the personage who assumed to 
himself the perilous position of Miss Vaughan’s 
permanent lover. He imagined that it was 
impossible for any woman to look upon him 
and not love him. Accordingly, he paraded- 
himself at his shop-door as she passed ; he pa- 


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83 


raded himself at the corners of the streets ; he 
paraded himself at the church-steps on Sun- 
day. He spied her from the window ; he sal- 
lied from the door ; he followed her with his 
eyes ; he followed her with his whole august 
person ; he passed her and repassed her, and 
turned back to gaze ; he lay in wait with de- 
jected countenance and desponding air ; he 
persecuted her with his looks ; he pretended 
that their souls could comprehend each other 
without words ; and whenever her lovers were 
alluded to in his presence, he gravely declared, 
as one who had reason to know, that, if Miss 
Vaughan ever married, it would be some one of 
gigantic intellect ! 

Of these persecutions Cecilia was for a long 
time the unconscious victim. She saw this 
individual, with rings and strange waistcoats, 
performing his gyrations before her, but did 
not suspect that she was the centre of attrac- 
tion, — not imagining that any man would be- 
gin his wooing with such outrages. Gradually 
the truth dawned upon her, and became the 
source of indescribable annoyance, which was 
augmented by a series of anonymous letters, 
written in a female hand, and setting forth the 
excellences of a certain mysterious relative, — - 


84 


Kavanagh 


his modesty, his reserve, his extreme delicacy, 
his talent for poetry, — rendered authentic by 
extracts from his papers, made, of course, with- 
out the slightest knowledge or suspicion on 
his part. Whence came these sibylline leaves } 
At first Cecilia could not divine ; but, erelong, 
her woman’s instinct traced them to the thin 
and nervous hand of the poet’s sister. This 
surmise was confirmed by her maid, who asked 
the boy that brought them. 

It was with one of these missives in her 
hand that Cecilia entered Mrs. Archer’s house, 
after purchasing the carrier-pigeon. Unan- 
nounced she entered, and walked up the nar- 
row and imperfectly lighted stairs to Alice’s 
bedroom, — that little sanctuary draped with 
white, — that columbarium lined with warmth, 
and softness, and silence. Alice was not there ; 
but the chair by the window, the open volume 
of Tennyson’s poems on the table, the note to 
Cecilia by its side, and the ink not yet dry in 
the pen, were like the vibration of a bough, 
when the bird has just left it, — like the rising 
of the grass, when the foot has just pressed it. 
In a rnoment she returned. She had been 
down to her mother, who sat talking, talking, 
talking, with an old friend in the parlor below, 


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85 


even as these young friends were talking to- 
gether, in the bedroom above. Ah, how dif- 
ferent were their themes ! Death and Love, 
— apples of Sodom, that crumble to ashes at 
a touch, — golden fruits of the Hesperides, — 
golden fruits of Paradise, fragrant, ambrosial, 
perennial ! 

have just been writing to you,’' said 
Alice ; I wanted so much to see you this 
morning ! ” 

Why this morning in particular } Has 
anything happened } ” 

Nothing, only I had such a longing to see 
you!” 

And, seating herself in a low chair by Ce- 
cilia’s side, she laid her head upon the shoul- 
der of her friend, who, taking one of her pale, 
thin hands in both her own, silently kissed her 
forehead again and again. 

Alice was not aware, that, in the words she 
uttered, there was the slightest shadow of un- 
truth. And yet had nothing happened 1 Was 
it nothing, that among her thoughts a new 
thought had risen, like a star, whose pale 
effulgence, mingled with the common daylight, 
was not yet distinctly visible even to herself, 
but would grow brighter as the sun grew lower, 


86 


Kavanagh 


and the rosy twilight darker ? Was it noth- 
ing, that a new fountain of affection had sud- 
denly sprung up within her, which she mistook 
for the freshening and overflowing of the old 
fountain of friendship, that hitherto had kept 
the lowland landscape of her life so green, but 
now, being flooded by more affection, was not 
to cease, but only to disappear in the greater 
tide, and flow unseen beneath it ? Yet so it 
was ; and this stronger yearning — this unap- 
peasable desire for her friend — was only the 
tumultuous swelling of a heart, that as yet 
knows not its own secret. 

I am so glad to see you, Cecilia ! ” she con- 
tinued. ‘‘You are so beautiful! I love so 
much to sit and look at you ! Ah, how I wish 
Heaven had made me as tall, and strong, and 
beautiful as you are 1 ” 

“ You little flatterer ! What an affectionate, 
lover-like friend you are I What have you 
been doing all the morning } '' 

*‘ Looking out of the window, thinking of 
you, and writing you this letter, to beg you 
to come and see me.’' 

“ And I have been buying a carrier-pigeon, 
to fly between us, and carry all our letters.” 

“ That will be delightful.” 


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87 


He is to be sent home to-day ; and after 
he gets accustomed to my room, I shall send 
him here, to get acquainted with yours ; — an 
lachimo in my Imogen’s bedchamber, to spy 
out its secrets.” 

If he sees Cleopatra in these white cur- 
tains, and silver Cupids in these andirons, he 
will have your imagination.” 

'' He will see the book with the leaf turned 
down, and you asleep, and tell me all about 
you.” 

A carrier-pigeon ! What a charming idea ! 
and how like you to think of it ! ” 

But to-day I have been obliged to bring 
my own letters. I have some more sibylline 
leaves from my anonymous correspondent, in 
laud and exaltation of her modest relative, who 
speaks blank verse in the bosom of his family. 
I have brought them to read you some ex- 
tracts, and to take your advice ; for, really and 
seriously, this must be stopped. It has grown 
too annoying.” 

How much love you have offered you ! ” 
said Alice, sighing. 

‘‘Yes, quite too much of this kind. On my 
way here, I saw the modest relative, standing 
at the corner of the street, hanging his head in 
this way.” 


88 


Kavanagh 


And she imitated the melancholy Hiram 
Adolphus, and the young friends laughed. 

“ I hope you did not notice him } ” resumed 
Alice. 

Certainly not. But what do you suppose 
he did } As soon as he saw me, he began to 
walk backward down the street only a short 
distance in front of me, staring at me most 
impertinently. Of course, I took no notice 
of this strange conduct. I felt myself blush- 
ing to the eyes with indignation, and yet 
could hardly suppress my desire to laugh.” 

If you had laughed, he would have taken 
it for an encouragement ; and I have no doubt 
it would have brought on the catastrophe.” 

And that would have ended the matter. I 
half wish I had laughed.” 

But think of the immortal glory of marry- 
ing a poet ! ” 

And of inscribing on my cards, Mrs. H. 
Adolphus Hawkins ! ” 

A few days ago, I went to buy something 
at his shop ; and, leaning over the counter, 
he asked me if I had seen the sun set the 
evening before, — adding, that it was gorgeous, 
and that the grass and trees were of a beauti- 
ful Paris green ! ” 


A Tale 89 

And again the young friends gave way to 
their mirth. 

‘‘One thing, dear Alice, you must consent 
to do for me. You must write to Miss Mar- 
tha Amelia, the author of all these epistles, and 
tell her very plainly how indelicate her con- 
duct is, and how utterly useless all such pro- 
ceedings will prove in effecting her purpose.” 

“ I will write this very day. You shall be no 
longer persecuted.” 

“ And now let me give you a few extracts 
from these wonderful epistles.” 

So saying, Cecilia drew forth a small pack- 
age of three-cornered billets, tied with a bit of 
pink ribbon. Taking one of them at random, 
she was on the point of beginning, but paused, 
as if her attention had been attracted by some- 
thing out of doors. The sound of passing foot- 
steps was heard on the gravel walk. 

“ There goes Mr. Kavanagh,” said she, in a 
half-whisper. 

Alice rose suddenly from her low chair at 
Cecilia's side, and the young friends looked 
from the window to see the clergyman pass. 

“ How handsome he is ! ” said Alice, invol- 
untarily. 

“ He is, indeed.” 


90 


Kavanagk 


At that moment Alice started back from 
the window. Kavanagh had looked up in 
passing, as if his eye had been drawn by some 
seeret magnetism. A bright color flushed the 
cheek of Alice ; her eyes fell ; but Cecilia con- 
tinued to look steadily into the street. Kav- 
anagh passed on, and in a few moments was 
out of sight. 

The two friends stood silent, side by side. 


A Tale 


91 


XVIII. 



RTHUR KAVANAGH was descended 


from an ancient Catholic family. His 
ancestors had purchased from the Baron Vic- 
tor of St. Castine a portion of his vast estates, 
lying upon that wild and wonderful sea-coast 
of Maine, which, even upon the map, attracts 
the eye by its singular and picturesque inden- 
tations, and fills the heart of the beholder with 
something of that delight which throbbed in 
the veins of Pierre du Gast, when, with a royal 
charter of the land from the Atlantic to the 
Pacific, he sailed down the coast in all the 
pride of one who is to be prince of such a vast 
domain. Here, in the bosom of the solemn 
forests, they continued the practice of that 
faith which had first been planted there by 
Rasle and St. Castine ; and the little church 
where they worshipped is still standing, though 
now as closed and silent as the graves which 
surround it, and in which the dust of the Kav- 
anaghs lies buried. 

In these solitudesj in this faith, was Kava- 


92 


Kavanagh 


nagh born, and grew to childhood, a feeble, deli- 
cate boy, watched over by a grave and taciturn 
father, and a mother who looked upon him 
with infinite tenderness, as upon a treasure she 
should not long retain. She walked with him 
by the seaside, and spake to him of God, and 
the mysterious majesty of the ocean, with its 
tides and tempests. She sat with him on the 
carpet of golden threads beneath the aromatic 
pines, and, as the perpetual melancholy sound 
ran along the rattling boughs, his soul seemed 
to rise and fall, with a motion and a whisper 
like those in the branches over him. She 
taught him his letters from the Lives of the 
Saints, — a volume full of wondrous legends, 
and illustrated with engravings from pictures 
by the old masters, which opened to him at 
once the world of spirits and the world of art ; 
and both were beautiful. She explained to 
him the pictures ; she read to him the legends, 

■ — the lives of holy men and women, full of 
faith and good works, — things which ever 
afterward remained associated together in his 
mind. Thus holiness of life, and self-renuncia- 
tion, and devotion to duty, were early im- 
pressed upon his soul. To his quick imagina- 
tion, the spiritual world became real ; the 


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93 


holy company of the saints stood round about 
the solitary boy ; his guardian angels led him 
by the hand by day, and sat by his pillow at 
night. At times, even, he wished to die, that 
he might see them and talk with them, and 
return no more to his weak and weary body. 

Of all the legends of the mysterious book, 
that which most delighted and most deeply 
impressed him was the legend of St. Christo- 
pher. The picture was from a painting of 
Paolo Farinato, representing a figure of gi- 
gantic strength and stature, leaning upon a 
staff, and bearing the infant Christ on his 
bending shoulders across the rushing river. 
The legend related, that St. Christopher, be- 
ing of huge proportions and immense strength, 
wandered long about the world before his con- 
version, seeking for the greatest king, and wil- 
ling to obey no other. After serving various 
masters, whom he in turn deserted, because 
each recognized by some word or sign another 
greater than himself, he heard by chance of 
Christ, the king of heaven and earth, and 
asked of a holy hermit where he might be 
found, and how he might serve him. The 
hermit told him he must fast and pray ; bur 
the giant replied that if he fasted he should 


94 


Kavanagh 


lose his strength, and that he did not know 
how to pray. Then the hermit told him to 
take up his abode on the banks of a danger- 
ous mountain torrent, where travellers were 
often drowned in crossing, and to rescue any 
that might be in peril. The giant obeyed ; 
and tearing up a palm-tree by the roots for a 
staff, he took his station by the river’s side, 
and saved many lives. And the Lord looked 
down from heaven and said, “ Behold this 
strong man, who knows not yet the way to 
worship, but has found the way to serve me ! ” 
And one night he heard th^ voice of a child, 
crying in the darkness and saying, “ Christo- 
pher ! come and bear me over the river ! ” 
And he went out, and found the child sitting 
alone on the margin of the stream ; and taking 
him upon his shoulders, he waded into the wa- 
ter. Then the wind began to roar, and the 
waves to rise higher and higher about him, 
and his little burden, which at first had 
seemed so light, grew heavier and heavier 
as he advanced, and bent his huge shoulders 
down, and put his life in peril ; so that, when 
he reached the shore, he said, “ Who art thou, 
O child, that hast weighed upon me with a 
weight, as if I had borne the whole world 


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95 


upon my shoulders ? And the little child 
answered, Thou hast borne the whole world 
upon thy shoulders, and Him who created it. 
I am Christ, whom thou by thy deeds of char- 
ity wouldst serve. Thou and thy service are 
accepted. Plant thy staff in the ground, and 
it shall blossom and bear fruit ! ” With these 
words, the child vanished away. 

There was something in this beautiful le- 
gend that entirely captivated the heart of the 
boy, and a vague sense of its hidden meaning 
seemed at times to seize him and control him. 
Later in life it became more and more evident 
to him, and remained forever in his mind as a 
lovely allegory of active charity and a willing- 
ness to serve. Like the giant's staff, it blos- 
somed and bore fruit. 

But the time at length came, when his 
father decreed that he must be sent away to 
school. It was not meet that his son should 
be educated as a girl. He must go to the 
Jesuit college in Canada. Accordingly, one 
bright summer morning, he departed with his 
father, on horseback, through those majestic 
forests that stretch with almost unbroken shad- 
ows from the sea to the St. Lawrence, leaving 
behind him all the endearments of home, and a 


96 


Kavanag/l 


wound in his mother's heart that never ceased 
to ache, — a longing, unsatisfied and insati- 
able, for her absent Arthur, who had gone 
from her perhaps forever. 

At college he distinguished himself by his 
zeal for study, by the docility, gentleness, and 
generosity of his nature. There he was thor- 
oughly trained in the classics, and in the dog- 
mas of that august faith, whose turrets gleam 
with such crystalline light, and whose dun- 
geons are so deep, and dark, and terrible. 
The study of philosophy and theology was 
congenial to his mind. Indeed, he often laid 
aside Homer for Parmenides, and turned from 
the odes of Pindar and Horace to the mystic 
hymns of Cleanthes and Synesius. 

The uniformity of college life was broken 
only by the annual visit home in the summer 
vacation ; the joyous meeting, the bitter part- 
ing ; the long journey to and fro through the 
grand, solitary, mysterious forest. To his moth- 
er these visits were even more precious than to 
himself ; for ever more and more they added to 
her boundless affection the feeling of pride and 
confidence and satisfaction, — the joy and beau- 
ty of a youth unspotted from the world, and 
glowing with the enthusiasm of virtue. 


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97 


At length his college days were ended. He 
returned home full of youth, full of joy and 
hope ; but it was only to receive the dying 
blessings of his mother, who expired in peace, 
having seen his face once more. Then the 
house became empty to him. Solitary was 
the sea-shore, solitary were the woodland 
walks. But the spiritual world seemed near- 
er and more real. For affairs he had no apti- 
tude ; and he betook himself again to his 
philosophic and theological studies. He pon- 
dered with fond enthusiasm on the rapturous 
pages of Molinos and Madame Guyon ; and in 
a spirit akin to that which wrote, he read the 
writings of Santa Theresa, which he found 
among his mother’s books, — the Meditations, 
the Road to Perfection, and the Moradas, or 
Castle of the Soul. She, too, had lingered 
over those pages with delight, and there were 
many passages marked by her own hand. 
Among them was this, which he often re- 
peated to himself in his lonely walks : O, 
Life, Life ! how canst thou sustain thyself, 
being absent from thy Life.? In so great a 
solitude, in what shalt thou employ thyself.? 
What shalt thou do, since all thy deeds are 
faulty and imperfect .? ” 

5 G 


98 


Kavanagh 


In such meditations passed many weeks and 
months. But mingled with them, continually 
and ever with more distinctness, arose in his 
memory from the days of childhood the old 
tradition of Saint Christopher, — the beauti- 
ful allegory of humility and labor. He and his 
service had been accepted, though he would 
not fast, and had not learned to pray ! It be- 
came more and more clear to him, that the life 
of man consists not in seeing visions, and in 
dreaming dreams, but in active charity and 
willing service. 

Moreover, the study of ecclesiastical history 
awoke within him many strange and dubious 
thoughts. The books taught him more than 
their writers meant to teach. It was impossi- 
ble to read of Athanasius without reading also 
of Arius ; it was impossible to hear of Calvin 
without hearing of Servetus. Reason began 
more energetically to vindicate itself; that 
Reason, which is a light in darkness, not that 
which is “ a thorn in Revelation's side." The 
search after Truth and Freedom, both intel- 
lectual and spiritual, became a passion in his 
soul ; and he pursued it until he had left far 
behind him many dusky dogmas, many antique 
superstitions, many time-honored observances, 


A Tale 


99 


which the lips of her alone, who first taught 
them to him in his childhood, had invested 
with solemnity and sanctity. 

By slow degrees, and not by violent spiritual 
conflicts, he became a Protestant. He had but 
passed from one chapel to another in the same 
vast cathedral. He was still beneath the same 
ample roof, still heard the same divine service 
chanted in a different dialect of the same univer- 
sal language. Out of his old faith he brought 
with him all he had found in it that was holy 
and pure and of good report. Not its bigotry, 
and fanaticism, and intolerance ; but its zeal, 
its self-devotion, its heavenly aspirations, its 
human sympathies, its endless deeds of charity. 
Not till after his father’s death, however, did 
he become a clergyman. Then his vocation 
was manifest to him. He no longer hesitated, 
but entered upon its many duties and respon- 
sibilities, its many trials and discouragements, 
with the zeal of Peter and the gentleness of 
John. 


L.ctC 


lOO 


Kavanagh 


XIX. 


WEEK later, and Kavanagh was in-* 



-iV stalled in his little room in the church- 
tower. A week later, and the carrier-pigeon 
was on the wing. A week later, and Martha 
Amelia’s anonymous epistolary eulogies of her 
relative had ceased forever. 

Swiftly and silently the summer advanced, 
and the following announcement in the Fair- 
meadow Advertiser proclaimed the hot weath- 
er and its alleviations : — 

“ I have the pleasure of announcing to the 
Ladies and Gentlemen of Fairmeadow and its 
vicinity, that my Bath House is now com- 
pleted, and ready for the reception of those 
who are disposed to regale themselves in a 
luxury peculiar to the once polished Greek 
and noble Roman. 

“To the Ladies I will say, that Tuesday of 
each week will be appropriated to their exclu- 
sive benefit ; the white flag will be the signal ; 
and I assure the Ladies, that due respect shall 


A Tale 


lOI 


be scrupulously observed, and that they shall 
be guarded from each vagrant foot and each 
licentious eye. 

"Edward Dimple.” 

Moreover, the village was enlivened by the 
Usual travelling shows, — the wax-work figures 
representing Eliza Wharton and the Salem 
Tragedy, to which clergymen and their fami- 
lies were " respectfully invited, free on present- 
ing their cards”; a stuffed shark, that had 
eaten the exhibitor’s father in Lynn Bay ; the 
menagerie, with its loud music and its roars of 
rage ; the circus, with its tan and tinsel, — its 
faded Columbine and melancholy Clown ; and, 
finally, the standard drama, in which Elder 
Evans, like an ancient Spanish Bululii, imper- 
sonated all the principal male characters, and 
was particularly imposing in lago and the 
Moor, having half his face lamp-blacked, and 
turning now the luminous, now the eclipsed 
side to the audience, as the exigencies of the 
dialogue demanded. 

There was also a great Temperance Jubilee, 
with a procession, in which was conspicuous a 
large horse, whose shaven tail was adorned 
with gay ribbons, and whose rider bore a ban- 


102 


Kavanagh 


ner with the device, Shaved in the Cause ! ” 
Moreover, the Grand Junction Railroad was 
opened through the town, running in one di- 
rection to the city, and in the other into un- 
known northern regions, stringing the white 
villages like pearls upon its black thread. By 
this, the town lost much of its rural quiet and 
seclusion. The inhabitants became restless 
and ambitious. They were in constant ex- 
citement and alarm, like children in story- 
books hidden away somewhere by an ogre, 
who visits them regularly every day and night, 
and occasionally devours one of them for a 
meal. 

Nevertheless, most of the inhabitants con- 
sidered the railroad a great advantage to the 
village. Several ladies were heard to say that 
Fairmeadow had grown quite metropolitan ; 
and Mrs. Wilmerdings, who suffered under a 
chronic suspension of the mental faculties, had 
a vague notion, probably connected with the 
profession of her son, that it was soon to be- 
come a seaport. 

In the fields and woods, meanwhile, there 
were other signs and signals of the summer. 
The darkening foliage ; the embrowning grain ; 
the golden dragon-fly haunting the blackberry- 


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103 


bushes ; the cawing crows, that looked down 
from the mountain on the cornfield, and wait- 
ed day after day for the scarecrow to finish his 
work and depart ; and the smoke of far-off 
burning woods, that pervaded the air and 
hung in purple haze about the summits of 
the mountains, — these were the vaunt-cou- 
riers and attendants of the hot August. 

Kavanagh had now completed the first 
great cycle of parochial visits. He had seen 
the Vaughans, the Archers, the Churchills, and 
also the Hawkinses and the Wilmerdingses, 
and many more. With Mr. Churchill he had 
become intimate. They had many points of 
contact and sympathy. They walked togeth- 
er on leisure afternoons ; they sat together 
through long summer evenings ; they dis- 
coursed with friendly zeal on various topics 
of literature, religion, and morals. 

Moreover, he worked assiduously at his ser- 
mons. He preached the doctrines of Christ. 
He preached holiness, self-denial, love ; and 
his hearers remarked that he almost invaria- 
bly took his texts from the Evangelists, as 
much as possible from the words of Christ, 
and seldom from Paul, or the Old Testa- 
ment. He did not so much denounce vice, 


104 Kavanagh 

as inculcate virtue ; he did hot deny, but af- 
firm ; he did not lacerate the hearts of his 
hearers with doubt and disbelief, but con- 
soled, and comforted, and healed them with 
faith. 

The only danger was that he might advance 
too far, and leave his congregation behind 
him ; as a piping shepherd, who, charmed 
with his own music, walks over the flowery 
mead, not perceiving that his tardy flock is 
lingering far behind, more intent upon crop- 
ping the thymy food around them, than upon 
listening to the celestial harmonies that are 
gradually dying away in the distance. 

His words were always kindly ; he brought 
no railing accusation against any man ; he 
dealt in no exaggerations nor over-statements. 
But while he was gentle, he was Arm. He 
did not refrain from reprobating intemper- 
ance because one of his deacons owned a 
distillery ; nor war, because another had a 
contract for supplying the army with mus- 
kets ; nor slavery, because one of the great 
men of the village slammed his pew-door, and 
left the church with a grand air, as much as 
to say, that all that sort of thing would not do, 
and the clergy had better confine themselves 


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105 

to abusing the sins of the Hindoos, and let our 
domestic institutions alone. 

In affairs ecclesiastical he had not sug- 
gested many changes. One that he had 
much at heart was, that the partition wall 
between parish and church should be quietly 
taken down, so that all should sit together at 
the Supper of the Lord. He also desired that 
the organist should relinquish the old and 
pernicious habit of preluding with triumphal 
marches, and running his fingers at random 
over the keys of his instrument, playing scraps 
of secular music very slowly to make them 
sacred, and substitute instead some of the 
beautiful symphonies of Pergolesi, Palestrina, 
and Sebastian Bach. 

He held that sacred melodies were becom- 
ing to sacred themes ; and did not wish, that, 
in his church, as in some of the French Cana- 
dian churches, the holy profession of religion 
should be sung to the air of When one is 
dead 'tis for a long time,’’ — the command- 
ments, aspirations for heaven, and the neces- 
sity of thinking of one’s salvation, to “ The 
Follies of Spain,” Louisa was sleeping in a 
grove,” or a grand '‘March of the French Cav- 
alry.” 


5 


io6 Kavanagh 

The study in the tower was delightful. 
There sat the young apostle, and meditated 
the great design and purpose of his life, the 
removal of all prejudice, and uncharitableness, 
and persecution, and the union of all sects in- 
to one church universal. Sects themselves he 
would not destroy, but sectarianism ; for sects 
were to him only as separate converging roads, 
leading all to the same celestial city of peace. 
As he sat alone, and thought of these things, 
he heard the great bell boom above him, and 
remembered the ages when in all Christendom 
there was but one Church ; when bells were 
anointed, baptized, and prayed for, that, where- 
soever those holy bells should sound, all deceits 
of Satan, all danger of whirlwinds, thunders, 
lightnings, and tempests might be driven away, 
— that devotion might increase in every Chris- 
tian when he heard them, — and that the Lord 
would sanctify them with his Holy Spirit, and 
infuse into them the heavenly dew of the Holy 
Ghost. He thought of the great bell Guthlac, 
which an abbot of Croyland gave to his monas- 
tery, and of the six others given by his succes- 
sor, — so musical, that, when they all rang 
together, as Ingulphus affirms, there was no 
ringing in England equal to it. As he lis- 


A Tale 


107 


tened, the bell seemed to breathe upon the 
air such clangorous sentences as, 

“Laudo Deum verum, plebem voco, congrego clerum, 
Defunctos ploro, nimbum fugo, festaque honoro. ” 

Possibly, also, at times, it interrupted his stud- 
ies and meditations with other words than 
these. Possibly it sang into his ears, as did 
the bells of Varennes into the ears of Panurge, 
— '' Marry thee, marry thee, marry, marry ; 
if thou shouldst marry, marry, marry, thou 
shalt find good therein, therein, therein, so 
marry, marry.’' 

From this tower of contemplation he looked 
down with mingled emotions of joy and sorrow 
on the toiling < world below. The wide pros- 
pect seemed to enlarge his sympathies and his 
charities ; and he often thought of the words 
of Plato : ‘‘ When we consider human life, we 
should view as from a high tower all things 
terrestrial ; such as herds, armies, men em- 
ployed in agriculture, in marriages, divorces, 
births, deaths; the tumults of courts of jus- 
tice ; desolate lands ; various barbarous na- 
tions ; feasts, wailings, markets ; a medley of 
all things, in a system adorned by contrarie- 
ties.” 


io8 


Kavanagh 


On the outside of the door Kavanagh had 
written the vigorous line of Dante, 

“ Think that To-day will never dawn again ! ” 

that it might always serve as a salutation and 
memento to him as he entered. On the inside, 
the no less striking lines of a more modern 
bard, — 

“Lose this day loitering, ’t will be the same story 
To-morrow, and the next more dilatory ; 

For indecision brings its own delays. 

And days are lost, lamenting o'er lost days. 

Are you in earnest ? Seize this very minute ! 

What you can do or think you can, begin it ! 

Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it ! 

Only engage, and then the mind grows heated : 

Begin it, and the work will be completed. ” 

Once, as he sat in this retreat near noon, 
enjoying the silence, and the fresh air that 
visited him through the oval windows, his 
attention was arrested by a cloud of dust, roll- 
ing along the road, out of which soon emerged 
a white horse, and then a very singular, round- 
shouldered, old-fashioned chaise, containing an 
elderly couple, both in black. What particu- 
larly struck him was the gait of the horse, who 
had a very disdainful fling to his hind legs. 
The slow equipage passed, and would have 


A Tale 


109 • 


been forever forgotten, had not Kavanagh 
seen it again at sunset, stationary at Mr. 
Churchilfs door, towards which he was di- 
recting his steps. 

As he entered, he met Mr. Churchill, just 
taking leave of an elderly lady and gentleman 
in black, whom he recognized as the travellers 
in the old chaise. Mr. Churchill looked a lit- 
tle flushed and disturbed, and bade his guests 
farewell with a constrained air. On seeing 
Kavanagh, he saluted him, and called him by 
name ; whereupon the lady pursed up her 
mouth, and, after a quick glance, turned away 
her face ; and the gentleman passed with a 
lofty look, in which curiosity, reproof, and 
pious indignation were strangely mingled. 
They got into the chaise, with some such 
feelings as Noah and his wife may be sup- 
posed to have had on entering the ark ; the 
whip descended upon the old horse with un- 
usual vigor, accompanied by a jerk of the 
reins that caused him to say within himself, 
‘‘What is the matter now.?'' He then moved 
off* at his usual pace, and with that peculiar 
motion of the hind legs which Kavanagh had 
perceived in the morning. 

Kavanagh found his friend not a little dis- 


I lO 


Kavanagh 


turbed, and evidently by the conversation of 
the departed guests. 

‘‘ That old gentleman,” said Mr. Churchill, 
‘‘ is your predecessor, Mr. Pendexter. He 
thinks we are in a bad way since he left us. 
He considers your liberality as nothing better 
than rank Arianism and infidelity. The fact 
is, the old gentleman is a little soured ; the 
vinous fermentation in his veins is now over, 
and the acetous has commenced.” 

Kavanagh smiled, but made no answer. 

I, of course, defended you stoutly,” contin- 
ued Mr. Churchill ; but if he goes about the 
village sowing such seed, there will be tares 
growing with the wheat.” 

have no fears,” said Kavanagh, very 
quietly. 

Mr. Churchill’s apprehensions were not, 
however, groundless ; for in the course of 
the week it came out that doubts, surmises, 
and suspicions of Kavanagh’s orthodoxy were 
springing up in many weak but worthy minds. 
And it was ever after observed, that, when- 
ever that fatal, apocalyptic white horse and 
antediluvian chaise appeared in town, many 
parishioners were harassed with doubts and 
perplexed with theological difficulties and un- 
certainties. 


A Tale 


1 1 1 


Nevertheless, the main current of opinion 
was with him ; and the parish showed their 
grateful acknowledgment of his zeal and sym- 
pathy, by requesting him to sit for his portrait 
to a great artist from the city, who was pass- 
ing the summer months in the village for 
recreation, using his pencil only on rarest 
occasions and as a particular favor. To this 
martyrdom the meek Kavanagh submitted 
without a murmur. During the progress of 
this work of art, he was seldom left alone ; 
some one of his parishioners was there to 
enliven him ; and most frequently it was Miss 
Martha Amelia Hawkins, who had become 
very devout of late, being zealous in the 
Sunday School, and requesting her relative 
not to walk between churches any more. 
She took a very lively interest in the portrait, 
and favored with many suggestions the distin- 
guished artist, who found it difficult to obtain 
an expression which would satisfy the parish, 
some wishing to have it grave, if not severe, 
and others with “Mr. Kavanagh’s peculiar 
smile.’' Kavanagh himself was quite indif- 
ferent about the matter, and met his fate 
with Christian fortitude, in a white cravat 
and sacerdotal robes, with one hand hanging 


112 


Kavanagh 


4own from the back of his chair, and the other 
holding a large book with the fore-finger be- 
tween its leaves, reminding Mr. Churchill of 
Milo with his fingers in the oak. The expres- 
sion of the face was exceedingly bland and re- 
signed ; perhaps a little wanting in strength, 
but on the whole satisfactory to the parish. 
So was the artist's price ; nay, it was even 
held by some persons to be cheap, consid- 
ering the quantity of background he had 
put in. 


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113 


XX. 

M eanwhile, things had gone on 
very quietly and monotonously in Mr. 
Churchill’s family. Only one event, and that 
a mysterious one, had disturbed its serenity. 
It was the sudden disappearance of Lucy, the 
pretty orphan girl ; and, as the booted centi- 
pede, who had so much excited Mr. Churchill’s 
curiosity, disappeared at the same time, there 
was little doubt that they had gone away to- 
gether. But whither gone, and wherefore, re- 
mained a mystery. 

Mr. Churchill, also, had had his profile, and 
those of his wife and children, taken, in a very 
humble style, by Mr. Bantam, whose advertise- 
ment he had noticed on his way to school near- 
ly a year before. His own was considered the 
best, as a work of art. The face was cut out 
entirely ; the collar of the coat velvet ; the shirt- 
collar very high and white ; and the top of his 
head ornamented with a crest of hair turning 
up in front, though his own turned down, — 
which slight deviation from nature was ex- 


H 


Kavanagh 


114 

plained and justified by the painter as a li- 
cense allowable in art. 

One evening, as he was sitting down to be- 
gin, for at least the hundredth time, the great 
Romance, — subject of so many resolves and 
so much remorse, so often determined upon 
but never begun, — a loud knock at the street- 
door, which stood wide open, announced a vis- 
itor. Unluckily, the study-door was likewise 
open; and consequently, being in full view, 
he found it impossible to refuse himself ; nor, 
in fact, would he have done so, had all the 
doors been shut and bolted, — the art of refus- 
ing one’s self being at that time but imperfect- 
ly understood in Fairmeadow. Accordingly, 
the visitor was shown in. 

He announced himself as Mr. Hathaway. 
Passing through the village, he could not deny 
himself the pleasure of calling on Mr. Church- 
ill, whom he knew by his writings in the peri- 
odicals, though not personally. He wished, 
moreover, to secure the co-operation of one, 
already so favorably known to the literary 
world, in a new Magazine he was about to 
establish, in order to raise the character of 
American literature, which, in his opinion, 
the existing reviews and magazines had en- 


A Tale 


115 

tirely failed to accomplish. A daily increas- 
ing want of something better was felt by the 
public ; and the time had come for the estab- 
lishment of such a periodical as he proposed. 
After explaining, in rather a florid and exu- 
berant manner, his plan and prospects, he 
entered more at large into the subject of 
American literature, which it was his design 
to foster and patronize. 

I think, Mr. Churchill,’’ said he, that we 
want a national literature commensurate with 
our mountains and rivers, — commensurate 
with Niagara, and the Alleghanies, and the 
Great Lakes ! ” 

Oh ! ” 

We want a national epic that shall corre- 
spond to the size of the country ; that shall be 
to all other epics what Banvard’s Panorama of 
the Mississippi is to all other paintings, — the 
largest in the world ! ” 

^^Ah!” 

“ We want a national drama in which scope 
enough shall be given to our gigantic ideas, 
and to the unparalleled activity and progress 
of our people ! ” 

'' Of course.” 

In a word, we want a national literature 


Kavanagh 


1 16 

altogether shaggy and unshorn, that shall 
shake the earth, like a herd of buffaloes thun- 
dering over the prairies ! 

Precisely,'’ interrupted Mr. Churchill ; but 
excuse me ! — are you not confounding things 
that have no analogy } Great has a very dif- 
ferent meaning when applied to a river, and 
when applied to a literature. Large and shal- 
low may perhaps be applied to both. Litera- 
ture is rather an image of the spiritual world, 
than of the physical, is it not } — of the inter- 
nal, rather than the external. Mountains, 
lakes, and rivers are, after all, only its scenery 
and decorations, not its substance and essence. 
A man will not necessarily be a great poet 
because he lives near a great mountain. Nor, 
being a poet, will he necessarily write better 
poems than another, because he lives nearer 
Niagara." 

But, Mr. Churchill, you do not certainly 
mean to deny the influence of scenery on the 
•mind.?" 

No, only to deny that it can create genius. 
At best, it can only develop it. Switzerland 
has produced no extraordinary poet ; nor, as 
far as I know, have the Andes, or the Him- 
alaya mountains, or the Mountains of the Moon 
in Africa." 


X 


A Tale 1 1 7 

But, at all events,’' urged Mr. Hathaway, 
let us have our literature national. If it is 
not national, it is nothing.” 

‘‘ On the contrary, it may be a great deal. 
Nationality is a good thing to a certain extent, 
but universality is better. All that is best in 
the great poets of all countries is not what is 
national in them, but what is universal. Their 
roots are in their native soil ; but their branch- 
es wave in the unpatriotic air, that speaks the 
same language unto all men, and their leaves 
shine with the illimitable light that pervades 
all lands. Let us throw all the windows open ; 
let us admit the light and air on all sides ; that 
we may look towards the four corners of the 
heavens, and not always in the same direction.” 

‘^But you admit nationality to be a good 
thing.?” 

‘‘Yes, if not carried too far; still, I con- 
fess, it rather limits one’s views of truth. 
I prefer what is natural. Mere nationality is 
often ridiculous. Every one smiles when he 
hears the Icelandic proverb, ‘Iceland is the 
best land the sun shines upon.’ Let us be 
natural, and we shall be national enough. 
Besides, our literature can be strictly national 
only so far as our character and modes of 


1 1 8 Kavanagh 

thought differ from those of other nations. 
Now, as we are very like the English, — are, 
in fact, English under a different sky, — I do 
not see how our literature can be very differ- 
ent from theirs. Westward from hand to hand 
we pass the lighted torch, but it was lighted 
at the old domestic fireside of England.'' 

Then you think our literature is never to 
be anything but an imitation of the English } " 

Not at all. It is not an imitation, but, as 
some one has said, a continuation." 

It seems to me that you take a very nar- 
row view of the subject." 

On the contrary, a very broad one. No 
literature is complete until the language in 
which it is written is dead. We may well be 
proud of our task and of our position. Let us 
see if we can build in any way worthy of our 
forefathers." 

But I insist upon originality." 

“ Yes ; but without spasms and convulsions. 
Authors must not, like Chinese soldiers, ex- 
pect to win victories by turning somersets in 
the air." 

Well, really, the prospect from your point 
of view is not very brilliant. Pray, what do 
you think of our national literature } " 


“Simply, that a national literature is not 
the growth of a day. Centuries must contrib- 
ute their dew and sunshine to it. Our own is 
growing slowly but surely, striking its roots 
downward, and its branches upward, as is 
natural ; and I do not wish, for the sake of 
what some people call originality, to invert 
it, and try to make it grow with its roots in 
the air. And as for having it so savage and 
wild as you want it, I have only to say, that all 
literature, as well as all art, is the result of cul- 
ture and intellectual refinement.” 

“ Ah ! we do not want art and refinement ; we 
want genius, — untutored, wild, original, free.” 

“But, if this genius is to find any expression, 
it must employ art ; for art is the external ex- 
pression of our thoughts. Many have genius, 
but, wanting art, are forever dumb. The two 
must go together to form the great poet, 
painter, or sculptor.” 

“In that sense, very well.” 

“ I was about to say also that I thought our 
literature would finally not be wanting in a 
kind of universality. As the blood of all na- 
tions is mingling with our own, so will their 
thoughts and feelings finally mingle in our 
literature. We shall draw from the Germans, 


120 


Kavanagh 


tenderness ; from the Spaniards, passion ; from 
the French, vivacity^ — to mingle more and 
more with our English solid sense. , And this 
will give us universality, so much to be desired.’’ 

‘'If that is your way of thinking,” inter- 
rupted the visitor, “you will like the work I 
am now engaged upon.” 

“ What is it } ” 

“ A great national drama, the scene of which 
is laid in New Mexico. It is entitled Don Se- 
rafin, or the Marquis of the Seven Churches. 
The principal characters are Don Serafin, an 
old Spanish hidalgo ; his daughter Deseada ; 
and Fra Serapion, the Curate. The play opens 
with Fra Serapion at breakfast ; on the table 
a game-cock, tied by the leg, sharing his mas- 
ter’s meal. Then follows a scene at the cock- 
pit, where the Marquis stakes the remnant of 
his fortune — his herds and hacienda — on a 
favorite cock, and loses.” 

“But what do you know about cock-fight- 
ing ? ” demanded, rather than asked, the aston- 
ished and half-laughing schoolmaster. 

“ I am not very well informed on that sub- 
ject, and I was going to ask you if you could 
not recommend some work.” 

“The only work I am acquainted with,’* 


A Tale 


I 2 I 


replied Mr. Churchill, “is the Reverend Mr. 
Pegge’s Essay on Cock-fighting among the 
Ancients ; and I hardly see how you could 
apply that to the Mexicans.” 

“Why, they are a kind of ancients, you 
know. I certainly will hunt up the essay you 
mention, and see what I can do with it.” 

“And all I know about the matter itself,” 
continued Mr. Churchill, “ is, that Mark An- 
tony was a patron of the pit, and that his 
cocks were always beaten by Caesar’s ; and 
that, when Themistocles the Athenian gen- 
eral was marching against the Persians, he 
halted his army to see a cock-fight, and made 
a speech to his soldiery, to the effect, that 
those animals fought, not for the gods of their 
country, nor for the monuments of their ances- 
tors, nor for glory, nor for freedom, nor for 
their children, but only for the sake of victory. 
On his return to Athens, he established cock- 
fights in that capital. But how this is to help 
you in Mexico I do not see, unless you intro- 
duce Santa Anna, and compare him to Caesar 
and Themistocles.” 

“ That is it ; I will do so. It will give his- 
toric interest to the play. I thank you for the 
suggestion.” 


122 


Kavanagh 


‘‘The subject is certainly very original ; but 
it does not strike me as particularly national/' 

“Prospective, you see!" said Mr. Hathaway, 
with a penetrating look. 

“Ah, yes ; I perceive you fish with a heavy 
sinker, — down, far down in the future, — 
among posterity, as it were.” 

“You have seized the idea. Besides, I ob- 
viate your objection, by introducing an Ameri- 
can circus company from the United States, 
which enables me to bring horses on the stage 
and produce great scenic effect.” 

“ That is a bold design. The critics will be 
out upon you without fail.” 

“Never fear that. I know the critics root 
and branch, — out and out, — have summered 
them, and wintered them, — in fact, am one of 
them myself Very good fellows are the crit- 
ics, are they not } ” 

“ O, yes ; only they have such a pleasant 
way of talking down upon authors.” 

•“ If they did not talk down upon them, they 
would show no superiority ; and, of course, 
that would never do.” 

“Nor is it to be wondered at, that authors 
are sometimes a little irritable. I often recall 
the poet in the Spanish fable, whose manu- 


A Tale 


123 


scripts were devoured by mice, till at length 
he put some corrosive sublimate into his ink, 
and was never troubled again/' 

‘‘Why don’t you try it yourself?” said Mr. 
Hathaway, rather sharply. 

“O,” answered Mr. Churchill,” with a smile 
of humility, “ I and my writings are too insig- 
nificant. They may gnaw and welcome. I do 
not like to have poison about, even for such 
purposes.” 

“ By, the way, Mr. Churchill,” said the vis- 
itor, adroitly changing the subject, “do you 
know Honeywell ? ” 

“No, I do not. Who is he ? ” 

“ Honeywell the poet, I mean.” 

“No, I never even heard of him. There are 
so many poets now-a-days ! ” 

“ That is very strange indeed ! Why, I con- 
sider Honeywell one of the finest writers in 
the country, — quite in the front rank of 
American authors. He is a real poet, and 
no mistake. Nature made him with her shirt- 
sleeves rolled up.” 

“ What has he published ? ” 

“He has not published anything yet, except 
in the newspapers. But, this autumn, he is 
going to bring out a volume of poems. I could 


124 


Kavanagh 


not help having my joke with him about it. I 
told him he had better print it on cartridge- 
paper.” 

Why so.?” 

Why, to make it go off better ; don’t you 
understand .? ” 

'' O, yes ; now that you explain it. Very 
good.” 

Honeywell is going to write for the Maga- 
zine ; he is to furnish a poem for every num- 
ber ; and as he succeeds equally well in the 
plaintive and didactic style of Wordsworth, 
and the more vehement and impassioned style 
of Byron, I think we shall do very well.” 

‘‘And what do you mean to call the new 
Magazine .? ” inquired Mr. Churchill. 

“ We think of calling it The Niagara.” 

“ Why, that is the name of our fire-engine ! 
Why not call it the Extinguisher .? ” 

“ That is also a good name ; but I prefer 
The Niagara, as more national. And I hope, 
Mr.* Churchill, you will let us count upon you. 
We should like to have am article from your 
pen for every number.” 

“ Do you mean to pay your contributors .? ” 

“ Not the first year, I am sorry to say. But 
after that, if the work succeeds, we shall pay 


A Tale 


125 


handsomely. And, of course, it will succeed, 
for we mean it shall ; and we never say fail. 
There is no such word in our dictionary. Be- 
fore the year is out, we mean to print fifty 
thousand copies j and fifty thousand copies will 
give us, at least, one hundred and fifty thou- 
sand readers ; and, with such an audience, any 
author might be satisfied.” 

He had touched at length the right strings 
in Mr. Churchill’s bosom ; and they vibrated 
to the touch with pleasant harmonies. Liter- 
ary vanity ! — literary ambition ! The editor 
perceived it ; and so cunningly did he play 
upon these chords, that, before he departed, 
Mr. Churchill had promised to write for him 
a series of papers on Obscure Martyrs, — a 
kind of tragic history of the unrecorded and 
life-long sufferings of women, which hitherto 
had found no historian, save now and then a 
novelist. 

Notwithstanding the certainty of success, — 
notwithstanding the fifty thousand subscribers 
and the one hundred and fifty thousand read- 
ers, — the Magazine never went into opera- 
tion. Still the dream was enough to occupy 
Mr. Churchill’s thoughts, and to withdraw 
them entirely from his Romance for many 
weeks together. 


126 


Kavanagh 


XXL 


VERY State, and almost every county, of 



-L^ New England, has its Roaring Brook, — 
a mountain streamlet, overhung by woods, im- 
peded by a mill, encumbered by fallen trees, 
but ever racing, rushing, roaring down through 
gurgling gullies, and filling the forest with its 
delicious sound and freshness ; the drinking- 
place of home-returning herds ; the mysteri- 
ous haunt of squirrels and blue-jays; the 
sylvan retreat of school-girls, who frequent 
it on summer holidays, and mingle their rest- 
less thoughts, their overflowing fancies, their 
fair imaginings, with its restless, exuberant, 
and rejoicing stream. 

Fairmeadow had no Roaring Brook. As 
its name indicates, it was too level a land for 
that. But the neighboring town of Westwood, 
lying more inland, and among the hills, had 
one of the fairest and fullest of all the brooks 
that roar. It was the boast of the neighbor- 
hood. Not to have seen it, was to have seen 
no brook, no waterfall, no mountain ravine 


A Tale 


127 


And, consequently, to behold it and admire, 
was Kavanagh taken by Mr. Churchill as soon 
as the summer vacation gave leisure and op- 
portunity. The party consisted of Mr. and 
Mrs. Churchill, and Alfred, in a one-horse 
chaise ; and Cecilia, Alice, and Kavanagh, in 
a caryall, — the fourth seat in which was occu- 
pied by a large basket, containing what the 
Squire of the Grove, in Don Quixote, called 
his “fiambreras,” — that magniloquent Cas- 
tilian word for cold collation. Over warm 
uplands, smelling of clover and mint ; through 
cool glades, still wet with the rain of yester- 
day ; along the river ; across the rattling and 
tilting planks of wooden bridges ; by or- 
chards ; by the gates of fields, with the tall 
mullen growing at the bars ; by stone walls 
■jverrun with privet and barberries ; in sun 
and heat, in shadow and coolness, — forward 
drove the happy party on that pleasant sum- 
mer morning. 

At length they reached the Roaring Brook. 
From a gorge in the mountains, through a 
long, winding gallery of birch, and beech, and 
pine, leaped the bright, brown waters of the 
jubilant streamlet ; out of the woods, across 
the plain, under the rude bridge of logs, into 


128 


Kavanagh 


the woods again, — a day between two nights. 
With it went a song that made the heart sing 
likewise ; a song of joy, and exultation, and 
freedom ; a continuous and unbroken song of 
life, and pleasure, and perpetual youth. Like 
the old Icelandic Scald, the streamlet seemed 
to say, — 

• “ I am possessed of songs such as neither 
the spouse of a king, or any son of man, can 
repeat ; one of them is called the Helper ; it 
will help thee at thy need, in sickness, grief, 
and all adversity.” 

The little party left their carriages at a farm- 
house by the bridge, and followed the rough 
road on foot along the brook ; now close upon 
it, now shut out by intervening trees. Mr. 
Churchill, bearing the basket on his arm, 
walked in front with his wife and Alfred. 
Kavanagh came behind with Cecilia and 
Alice. The music of the brook silenced all 
conversation ; only occasional exclamations of 
delight were uttered, — the irrepressible ap- 
plause of fresh and sensitive natures, in a 
scene so lovely. Presently, turning off from 
the road, which led directly to the mill, and 
was rough with the tracks of heavy wheels, 
they went down to the margin of the brook. 


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129 


“How indescribably beautiful this brown- 
water is !” exclaimed Kavanagh. “It is like 
wine, or the nectar of the gods of Olympus ; 
as if the falling Hebe had poured it from her 
goblet.” 

More like the mead or metheglin of the 
northern gods,” said Mr. Churchill, ‘‘spilled 
from the drinking-horns of Valhalla.” 

But all the ladies thought Kavanagh’s com- 
parison the better of the two, and in fact the 
best that could be made \ and Mr. Churchill 
was obliged to retract and apologize for his 
allusion to the celestial ale-house of Odin. 

Erelong they were forced to cross the 
brook, stepping from stone to stone, over the 
little rapids and cascades. All crossed lightly, 
easily, safely ; even “ the sumpter mule,” as 
Mr. Churchill called himself, on account of the 
pannier. Only Cecilia lingered behind, as if 
afraid to cross. Cecilia, who had crossed at 
that same place a hundred times before, 
Cecilia, who had the surest foot, and the firm- 
est nerves, of all the village maidens, she 
now stood irresolute, seized with a sudden 
tremor ; blushing-, and laughing at her own 
timidity, and yet unable to advance. Kavan- 
agh saw her embarrassment and hastened 
6* I 


130 


Kavanagh 


back to help her. Her hand trembled in his ; 
she thanked him with a gentle look and word. 
His whole soul was softened within him. His 
attitude, his countenance, his voice, were alike 
submissive and subdued. He was as one pen- 
etrated with tenderest emotions. 

It is difficult to know at what moment 
love begins ; it is less difficult to know that 
it has begun. A thousand heralds proclaim 
it to the listening air ; a thousand ministers 
and messengers betray it to the eye. Tone, 
act, attitude and look, — the signals upon 
the countenance, — the electric telegraph of 
touch ; all these betray the yielding citadel 
before the word itself is uttered, which, like 
the key surrendered, opens every avenue and 
gate of entrance, and makes retreat impos- 
sible ! 

The day passed delightfully with all. They 
sat upon the stones and the roots of trees. 
Cecilia read, from a volume she had brought 
with her, poems that rhymed with the run- 
ning water. The others listened and com- 
mented. Little Alfred waded in the stream, 
with his bare white feet, and launched boats 
over the falls. Noon had been fixed upon for 
dining ; but they anticipated it by at least an 


A Tale 


131 

hour. The great basket was opened ; endless 
sandwiches were drawn forth, and a cold pas- 
try, as large as that of the Squire of the Grove. 
During the repast, Mr. Churchill slipped into 
the brook, while in the act of handing a sand- 
wich to his wife, which caused unbounded 
mirth ; and Kavanagh sat down on a mossy 
trunk, that gave way beneath him, and crum- 
bled into powder. This, also, was received 
with great merriment. 

After dinner, they ascended the brook still 
farther, — indeed, quite to the mill, which was 
not going. It had been stopped in the midst 
of its work. The saw still held its hungry 
teeth fixed in the heart of a pine. Mr. 
Churchill took occasion to make known to 
the company his long cherished purpose of 
writing a poem called “ The Song of the Saw- 
Mill,” and enlarged on the beautiful associa- 
tions of flood and forest connected with the 
theme. He delighted himself and his audience 
with the fine fancies he meant to weave into 
his poem, and wondered nobody had thought 
of the subject before. Kavanagh said it had 
been thought of before ; and cited Kerner’s 
little poem, so charmingly translated by Bry- 
ant. Mr. Churchill had not seen it. Kavan- 


132 


Kavanagh 


agh looked into his pocket-book for it, but it 
was not to be found ; still he was sure that 
there was such a poem. Mr. Churchill aban- 
doned his design. He had spoken, — and the 
treasure, just as he had touched it with his 
hand, was gone forever. 

The party returned home as it came, all 
tired and happy, excepting little Alfred, who 
was tired and cross, and sat sleepy and sag- 
ging on his father’s knee, with his hat cocked 
rather fiercely over his eyes. 


A Tale 


133 


XXIL 


HE brown autumn came. Out of doors, 



-A- it brought to the fields the prodigality 
of the golden harvest, — to the forest, revela- 
tions of light, — and to the sky, the sharp air, 
the morning mist, the red clouds at evening. 
Within doors, the sense of seclusion, the still- 
ness of closed and curtained windows, mus- 
ings by the fireside, books, friends, conversa- 
tion, and the long, meditative evenings. To 
the farmer, it brought surcease of toil, — to 
the scholar, that sweet delirium of the brain 
which changes toil to pleasure. It brought 
the wild duck back to the reedy marshes of 
the south ; it brought the wild song back to 
the fervid brain of the poet. Without, the 
village street was paved with gold ; the river 
ran red with the reflection of the leaves. 
Within, the faces of friends brightened the 
gloomy walls ; the returning footsteps of the 
long-absent gladdened the threshold ; and all 
the sweet amenities of social life again re- 
sumed their interrupted reign. 


134 


Kavanagh 


Kavanagh preached a sermon on the com- 
ing of autumn. He chose his text from 
Isaiah, — Who is this that cometh from 
Edom, with dyed garments from Bozrah ? 
this that is glorious in his apparel, travelling 
in the greatness of his strength ? Wherefore 
art thou red in thine apparel, and thy gar- 
ments like him that treadeth in the wine- 
vat " 

To Mr. Churchill, this beloved season — this 
Joseph with his coat of many colors, as he was 
fond of calling it — brought an unexpected 
guest, the forlorn, forsaken Lucy. The sur- 
mises of the family were too true. She had 
wandered away with the Briareus of boots. 
She returned alone, in destitution and de- 
spair ; and often, in the grief of a broken 
heart and a bewildered brain, was heard to 
say,— 

O, how I wish I were a Christian ! If I 
were only a Christian, I would not live any 
longer ; I would kill myself ! I am too wretch-, 
ed!" 

A few days afterwards, a gloomy-looking 
man rode through the town on horseback, 
stopping at every corner, and crying into 
every street, with a loud and solemn voice, — 


A Tale 


135 


“ Prepare ! prepare ! prepare to meet the 
living God ! ” 

It was one of that fanatical sect, who be- 
lieved the end of the world was imminent, 
and had prepared their ascension robes to be 
lifted up in clouds of glory, while the worn- 
out, weary world was to burn with fire be- 
neath them, and a new and fairer earth to be 
prepared for their inheritance. The appear- 
ance of this forerunner of the end of the world 
was followed by numerous camp-meetings, held 
in the woods near the village, to whose white 
tents and leafy chapels many went for conso- 
lation and found despair. 


136 


Kavanagk 


XXIII. 



GAIN the two crumbly old women sat 


^ and talked together in the little parlor of 
the gloomy house under the poplars, and the 
two girls sat above, holding each other by the 
hand, thoughtful, and speaking only at inter- 


vals. 


Alice was unusually sad and silent. The 
mists were already gathering over her vis- 
ion, — those mists that were to deepen and 
darken as the season advanced, until the ex- 
ternal world should be shrouded and finally 
shut from her view. Already the landscape 
began to wear a pale and sickly hue, as if the 
sun were withdrawing farther and farther, and 
were soon wholly to disappear, as in a north- 
ern winter. But to brighten this northern 
winter there now arose within her a soft, au- 
roral light. Yes, the auroral light of love, 
blushing through the whole heaven of her 
thoughts. She had not breathed that word to 
herself, nor did she recognize any thrill of pas- 
sion in the new emotion she experienced. But 


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137 


love it was ; and it lifted her soul into a region, 
which she at once felt was native to it, — into 
a subtler ether, which seemed its natural ele- 
ment. 

This feeling, however, was not all exhilara- 
tion. It brought with it its own peculiar lan- 
guor and sadness, its fluctuations and swift 
vicissitudes of excitement and depression. To 
this the trivial circumstances of life contrib- 
uted. Kavanagh had met her in the street, 
and had passed her without recognition ; and, 
in the bitterness of the moment, she forgot that 
she wore a thick veil, which entirely concealed 
her face. At an evening party at Mr. Church- 
ill’s, by a kind of fatality, Kavanagh had stood 
very near her for a long time, but with his back 
turned, conversing with Miss Hawkins, from 
whose toils, he was, in fact, though vainly, 
struggling to extricate himself ; and, in the 
irritation of supposed neglect, Alice had said 
to herself, — 

‘'This is the kind of woman which most 
fascinates men ! ” 

But these cruel moments of pain were few 
and short, while those of delight were many 
and lasting. In a life so lonely, and with so 
little to enliven and embellish it as hers, the 


Kavanagh 


138 

guest in disguise was welcomed with ardor, 
and entertained without fear or suspicion. 
Had he been feared or suspected, he would 
have been no longer dangerous. He came as 
friendship, where friendship was most needed ; 
he came as devotion, where her holy ministra- 
tions were always welcome. 

Somewhat differently had the same passion 
come to the heart of Cecilia ; for as the heart 
is, so is love to the heart. It partakes of its 
strength or weakness, its health or disease. In 
Cecilia, it but heightened the keen sensation 
of life. To all eyes, she became more beauti- 
ful, more radiant, more lovely, though they 
knew not why. When she and Kavanagh 
first met, it was hardly as strangers meet, 
but rather as friends long separated. When 
they first spoke to each other, it seemed but 
as the renewal of some previous interrupted 
conversation. Their souls flowed together at 
once, without turbulence or agitation, like wa- 
ters on the same level. As they found each 
other without seeking, so their intercourse 
was without affectation and without embar- 
rassment. 

Thus, while Alice, unconsciously to herself, 
desired the love of Kavanagh, Cecilia, as un- 


A Tale 


139 


consciously, assumed it as already her own. 
Alice keenly felt her own unworthiness ; Ce- 
cilia made no comparison of merit. When 
Kavanagh was present, Alice was happy, but 
embarrassed; Cecilia, joyous and natural. The 
former feared she might displease ; the latter 
divined from the first that she already pleased. 
In both, this was the intuition of the heart. 

So sat the friends together, as they had done 
so many times before. But now, for the first 
time, each cherished a secret, which she did 
not confide to the other. Daily, for many 
weeks, the feathered courier had come and 
gone from window to window, but this secret 
had never been intrusted to his keeping. Al- 
most daily the friends had met and talked to- 
gether, but this secret had not been told. 
That could not be confided to another, which 
had not been confided to themselves ; that 
could not be fashioned into words, which was 
not yet fashioned into thoughts, but was still 
floating, vague and formless, through the 
mind. Nay, had it been stated in words, 
each, perhaps, would have denied it. The 
distinct apparition of this fair spirit, in a vis- 
ible form, would have startled them ; though, 
while it haunted all the chambers of their 


140 Kavanagh 

souls as an invisible presence, it gave them 
only solace and delight. 

‘‘ How very feverish your hand is, dearest ! '' 
said Cecilia. What is the matter } Are you 
unwell } 

Those are the very words my mother said 
to me this morning,” replied Alice. ''I feel 
rather languid and tired, that is all. I could 
not sleep last night ; I never can, when it 
rains.” 

Did it rain last night ? I did not hear 
it.” 

''Yes; about midnight, quite hard. I lis- 
tened to it for hours. I love to lie awake, 
and hear the drops fall on the roof, and on 
the leaves. It throws me into a delicious, 
dreamy state, which I like much better than 
sleep.” 

Cecilia looked tenderly at her pale face. 
Her eyes were very bright, and on each cheek 
was a crimson signal, the sight of which would 
have given her mother so much anguish, that, 
perhaps, it was better for her to be blind than 
to see. 

" When you enter the land of dreams, Alice, 
you come into my peculiar realm. I am the 
queen of that country, you know. But, of 


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141 

late, I have thought of resigning my throne. 
These endless reveries are really a great waste 
of time and strength.” 

“ Do you think so } ” 

“ Yes ; and Mr. Kavanagh thinks so, too. 
We talked about it the other evening ; and 
afterwards, upon reflection, I thought he was 
right.” 

And the friends resolved, half in jest and 
half in earnest, that, from that day forth, the 
gate of their day-dreams should be closed. 
And closed it was, erelong ; — for one, by the 
Angel of Life ; for the other, by the Angel of 
Death ! 


142 


Kavanagh 


XXIV. 



‘HE project of the new Magazine being 


-L heard of no more, and Mr. Churchill 
being consequently deprived of his one hun- 
dred and fifty thousand readers, he laid aside 
the few notes he had made for his papers on 
the Obscure Martyrs, and turned his thoughts 
again to the great Romance. A whole leisure 
Saturday afternoon was before him, — pure 
gold, without alloy. Ere beginning his task, 
he stepped forth into his garden to inhale the 
sunny air, and let his thoughts recede a little, 
in order to leap farther. When he returned, 
glowing and radiant with poetic fancies, he 
found, to his unspeakable dismay, an un- 
known damsel sitting in his arm-chair. She 
was rather gayly yet elegantly dressed, and 
wore a veil, which she raised as Mr. Churchill 
entered, fixing upon him the full, liquid orbs of 
her large eyes. 

Mr. Churchill, I suppose "i '' said she, ris- 
ing, and stepping forward 


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143 


The same/’ replied the schoolmaster, with 
dignified courtesy. 

“ And will you permit me,” she continued, 
not without a certain serene self-possession, 
to introduce myself, for want of a better per- 
son to do it for me } My name is Cartwright, 

■ — Clarissa Cartwright.” 

This announcement did not produce that 
powerful and instantaneous effect on Mr. 
Churchill which the speaker seemed to an- 
ticipate, or at least to hope. His eye did not 
brighten with any quick recognition, nor did 
he suddenly exclaim, — 

What ! Are you Miss Cartwright, the 
poetess, whose delightful effusions I have seen 
in all the magazines } ” 

On the contrary, he looked rather blank 
and expectant, and only said, — 

I am very glad to see you ; pray sit down.” 

So that the young lady herself was obliged 
to communicate the literary intelligence above 
alluded to, which she did very gracefully, and 
then added, — 

‘‘ I have come to ask a great favor of you, 
Mr. Churchill, which I hope you will not deny 
me. By the advice of -some friends, I have 
collected my poems together,” — and here she 


144 


Kavanagh 


drew forth from a paper a large, thin manu- 
script, bound in crimson velvet, — ‘‘ and think 
of publishing them in a volume. Now, would 
you do me the favor to look them over, and 
give me your candid opinion, whether they are 
worth publishing ? I should value your advice 
so highly ! ” 

This simultaneous appeal to his vanity and 
his gallantry from a fair young girl, standing 
on the verge of that broad, dangerous ocean, 
in which so many have perished, and looking 
wistfully over its flashing waters to the shores 
of the green Isle of Palms, — such an appeal, 
from such a person, it was impossible for Mr. 
Churchill to resist. He made, however, a 
faint show of resistance, — a feeble grasping 
after some excuse for refusal, — and then 
yielded. He received from Clarissa’s del- 
icate, trembling hand the precious volume, 
and from her eyes a still more precious look 
of thanks, and then said, — 

^'What name do you propose to give the 
volume ? ” 

Symphonies of the Soul, and other Poems,” 
said the young lady ; and, if you like them, 
and it would not be asking too much, I should 
be delighted to have you write a Preface, to 


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H5 

introduce the work to the public. The pub- 
lisher says it would increase the sale very con- 
siderably.” 

“ Ah, the publisher ! yes, but that is not 
very complimentary to yourself,” suggested 
Mr. Churchill. “ I can already see your Po- 
ems rebelling against the intrusion of my Pre- 
face, and rising like so many nuns in a convent 
to expel the audacious foot that has dared to 
invade their sacred precincts.” 

But it was all in vain, this pale effort at pleas- 
antry. Objection was useless ; and the soft- 
hearted schoolmaster a second time yielded 
gracefully to his fate, and promised the Pre- 
face. The young lady took her leave with a 
profusion of thanks and blushes ; and the 
dainty manuscript, with its delicate chirog- 
raphy and crimson cover, remained in the 
hands of Mr. Churchill, who gazed at it less 
as a Paradise of Dainty Devices than as a deed 
or mortgage of so many precious hours of his 
own scanty inheritance of time. 

Afterwards, when he complained a little of 
this to his wife, — who, during the interview, 
had peeped in at the door, and, seeing how he 
was occupied, had immediately withdrawn, — 
she said that nobody was to blame but him- 
7 J 


146 


Kavanagh 


self ; that he should learn to say ‘‘ No ! ” and 
not do just as every romantic girl from the 
Academy wanted him to do ; adding, as a 
final aggravation and climax of reproof, that 
she really believed he never would, and never 
meant to, begin his Romance ! 


A Tale 


£47 


XXV. 


OT long afterwards, Kavanagh and Mr. 



^ Churchill took a stroll together across 
the fields, and down green lanes, walking all 
the bright, brief afternoon. From the sum- 
mit of the hill, beside the old windmill, they 
saw the sun set ; and, opposite, the full moon 
rise, dewy, large, and red. As they descend- 
ed, they felt the heavy dampness of the air, 
like water, rising to meet them, — bathing 
with coolness first their feet, then their hands, 
then their faces, till they were submerged in 
that sea of dew. As they skirted the wood- 
land on their homeward way, trampling the 
golden leaves underfoot, they heard voices at 
a distance, singing ; and then saw the lights 
of the camp-meeting gleaming through the 
trees, and, drawing nearer, distinguished a 
portion of the hymn : — 


“ Don’t you hear the Lord a-coming 


To the old churchyards, 
With a band of music, 
With a band of music, 


148 


Kavanagh 


With a band of music. 

Sounding through the air ? ” 

These words, at once awful and ludicrous, 
rose on the still twilight air from a hundred 
voices, thrilling with emotion, and from as 
many beating, fluttering, struggling hearts. 
High above them all was heard one voice, 
clear and musical as a clarion. 

“ I know that voice,” said Mr. Churchill ; “ it 
is Elder Evans’s.” 

“ Ah ! ” exclaimed Kavanagh, — for only the 
impression of awe was upon him, — “ he never 
acted in a deeper tragedy than this ! How 
terrible it is ! Let us pass on.” 

They hurried away, Kavanagh trembling in 
every fibre. Silently they walked, the music 
fading into softest vibrations behind them. 

“ How strange is this fanaticism ! ” at length 
said Mr. Churchill, rather as a relief to his 
own thoughts, than for the purpose of reviv- 
ing the conversation. “These people really 
believe that the end of the world is close at 
hand.” 

“And to thousands,” answered Kavanagh, 
“this is no fiction, — no illusion of an over- 
heated imagination. To-day, to-morrow, every 
day, to thousands, the end of the world is close 


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149 


at hand. And why should we fear it ? We 
walk here as it were in the crypts of life ; at 
times, from the great cathedral above us, 
we can hear the organ and the chanting of 
the choir ; we see the light stream through 
the open door, when some friend goes up be- 
fore us ; and shall we fear to mount the nar- 
row staircase of the grave, that leads us out of 
this uncertain twilight into the serene man- 
sions of the life eternal 

They reached the wooden bridge over the 
river, which the moonlight converted into a 
river of light. Their footsteps sounded on the 
planks ; they passed without perceiving a fe- 
male figure that stood in the shadow below on 
the brink of the stream, watching wistfully the 
steady flow of the current. It was Lucy ! Her 
bonnet and shawl were lying at her feet ; and 
when they had passed, she waded far out into 
the shallow stream, laid herself gently down in 
its deeper waves, and floated slowly away into 
the moonlight, among the golden leaves that 
were faded and fallen like herself, — among 
the water-lilies, whose fragrant white blossoms 
had been broken off and polluted long ago. 
Without a struggle, without a sigh, without a 
sound, she floated downward, downward, and 


7 


Kavanagh 


150 

silently sank into the silent river. Far off, 
faint, and indistinct, was heard the startling 
hymn, with its wild and peculiar melody, — 

“ O, there will be mourning, mourning, mourning, mourn- 
ing, — 

O, there will be mourning, at the judgment-seat of 
Christ!” 

Kavanagh’s heart was full of sadness. He 
left Mr. Churchill at his door, and proceeded 
homeward. On passing his church, he could 
not resist the temptation to go in. He climbed 
to his chamber in the tower, lighted by the 
moon. He sat for a long time gazing from 
the window, and watching a distant and fee- 
ble candle, whose rays scarcely reached him 
across the brilliant moon-lighted air. Gentler 
thoughts stole over him ; an invisible presence 
soothed him ; an invisible hand was laid upon 
his head, and the trouble and unrest of his 
spirit were changed to peace. 

Answer me, thou mysterious future ! ” ex- 
claimed he ; “ tell me, — shall these things be 
according to my desires } '' 

And the mysterious future, interpreted by 
those desires, replied, — 

Soon thou shalt know all. It shall be well 
with thee ! ” 


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151 


XXVI. 


N the following morning, Kavanagh sat 



as usual in his study in the tower. No 
traces were left of the heaviness and sadness 
of the preceding night. It was a bright, warm 
morning ; and the window, open towards the 
south, let in the genial sunshine. The odor of 
decaying leaves scented the air ; far off flashed 
the hazy river. 

Kavanagh’s heart, however, was not at rest. 
At times he rose from his books, and paced 
up and down his little study ; then took up 
his hat as if to go out ; then laid it down 
again, and again resumed his books. At 
length he arose, and, leaning on the window- ' 
sill, gazed for a long time on the scene before 
him. Some thought was laboring in his bo- 
som, some doubt or fear, which alternated 
with hope, but thwarted any fixed resolve. 

Ah, how pleasantly that fair autumnal land- 
scape smiled upon him ! The great golden 
elms that marked the line of the village street, 
and under whose shadows no beggars sat ; 


152 


Kavanagh 


the air of comfort and plenty, of neatness, 
thrift, and equality, visible everywhere ; and 
from far-off farms the sound of flails, beating 
the triumphal march of Ceres through the 
land; — these were the sights and sounds that 
greeted him as he looked. Silently the yel- 
low leaves fell upon the graves in the church- 
yard ; and the dew glistened in the grass, 
which was still long and green. 

Presently his attention was arrested by a 
dove, pursued by a little king-bird, who con- 
stantly endeavored to soar above it, in order 
to attack it at greater advantage. The flight 
of the birds, thus shooting through the air at 
arrowy speed, was beautiful. When they were 
opposite the tower, the dove suddenly wheeled, 
and darted in at the open window, while the 
pursuer held on his way with a long sweep, 
and was out of sight in a moment. 

At the first glance, Kavanagh recognized 
the dove, which lay panting on the floor. It 
was the same he had seen Cecilia buy of the 
little man in gray. He took it in his hands. 
Its heart was beating violently. About its 
neck was a silken band ; beneath its wing a 
billet, upon which was a single word, Cecilia.” 
The bird, then, was on its way to Cecilia 


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153 


Vaughan. He hailed the omen as auspicious, 
and, immediately closing the window, seated 
himself at his table, and wrote a few hurried 
words, which, being carefully folded and sealed, 
he fastened to the band, and then hastily, as if 
afraid his purpose might be changed by delay, 
opened the window and set the bird at liberty. 
It sailed once or twice round the tower, appa- 
rently uncertain and bewildered, or still in fear 
of its pursuer. Then, instead of holding its 
way over the fields to Cecilia Vaughan, it 
darted over the roofs of the village, and 
alighted at the window of Alice Archer. 

Having written that morning to Cecilia 
something urgent and confidential, she was 
already waiting the answer ; and, not doubt- 
ing that the bird had brought it, she hastily 
untied the silken band, and, without looking 
at the superscription, opened the first note 
that fell on the table. It was very brief ; 
only a few lines, and not a name mentioned 
in it ; an impulse, an ejaculation of love ; 
every line quivering with electric fire, — every 
word a pulsation of the writer's heart. It was 
signed “ Arthur Kavanagh." 

Overwhelmed by the suddenness and vio- 
lence of her emotions, Alice sat for a long 
1 * 


154 


Kavanagh 


time motionless, holding the open letter in her 
hand. Then she read it again, and then re- 
lapsed into her dream of joy and wonder. It 
would be difficult to say which of the two 
emotions was the greater, — her joy that her 
prayer for love should be answered, and so an- 
swered, — her wonder that Kavanagh should 
have selected her ! In the tumult of her sen- 
sations, and hardly conscious of what she was 
doing, she folded the note and replaced it in 
its envelope. Then, for the first time, her eye 
fell on the superscription. It was '' Cecilia 
Vaughan.” Alice fainted. 

On recovering her senses, her first act was 
one of heroism. She sealed the note, attached 
it to the neck of the pigeon, and sent the mes- 
senger rejoicing on his journey. Then her 
feelings had way, and she wept long and bit- 
terly. Then, with a desperate calmness, she 
reproved her own weakness and selfishness, 
and felt that she ought to rejoice in the hap- 
piness of her friend, and sacrifice her affection, 
even her life, to her. Her heart exculpated 
Kavanagh from all blame. He had not de- 
luded her ; she had deluded herself She 
alonj was in fault ; and in deep humiliation, 
with wounded pride and wounded love, and 


A Tale 


155 


utter self-abasement, she bowed her head and 
prayed for consolation and fortitude. 

One consolation she already had. The se- 
cret was her own. She had not revealed it 
even to Cecilia. Kavanagh did not suspect 
it. Public curiosity, public pity, she would 
not have to undergo. 

She was resigned. •,She made the heroic 
sacrifice of self, leaving her sorrow to the 
great physician. Time, — the nurse of care, 
the healer of all smarts, the soother and con- 
soler of all sorrows. And, thenceforward, she 
became unto Kavanagh what the moon is to 
the sun, forever following, forever separated, 
forever sad ! 

As a traveller, about to start upon his jour- 
ney, resolved and yet irresolute, watches the 
clouds, and notes the struggle between the 
sunshine and the showers, and says, “It will 
be fair ; I will go,” — and again says, “ Ah, 
no, not yet ; the rain is not yet over,” — so at 
this same hour sat Cecilia Vaughan, resolved 
and yet irresolute, longing to depart upon the 
fair journey before her, and yet lingering on 
the paternal threshold, as if she wished both to 
stay and to go, seeing the sky was not without 
its clouds, nor the road without its dangers. 


Kavanagh 


156 

It was a beautiful picture, as she sat there 
with sweet perplexity in her face, and above it 
an immortal radiance streaming from her brow. 
She was like Guercino’s Sibyl, with the scroll 
of fate and the uplifted pen ; and the scroll she 
held contained but three words, — three words 
that controlled the destiny of a man, and, by 
their soft impulsion, directed forevermore the 
current of his thoughts. They were, — 

'' Come to me J ” 

The magic syllables brought Kavanagh to 
her side. The full soul is silent. Only the 
rising and falling tides rush murmuring 
through their channels. So sat the lovers, 
hand in hand ; but for a long time neither 
spake, — neither had need of speech ! 


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157 


XXVIL 

I N the afternoon, Cecilia went to communi- 
cate the news to Alice with her own lips, 
thinking it too important to be intrusted to the 
wings of the carrier-pigeon. As she entered 
the door, the cheerful doctor was coming out ; 
but this was no unusual apparition, and ex- 
cited no alarm. Mrs. Archer, too, according 
to custom, was sitting in the little parlor with 
her decrepit old neighbor, who seemed almost 
to have taken up her abode under that roof, 
so many hours of every day did she pass there. 

With a light, elastic step, Cecilia bounded 
up to Alice’s room. She found her reclining 
in her large chair, flushed and excited. Sit- 
ting down by her side, and taking both her 
hands, she said, with great emotion in the 
tones of her voice, — 

Dearest Alice, I have brought you some 
news that I am sure will make you well. For 
my sake, you will be no longer ill when you 
hear it. I am engaged to Mr. Kavanagh ! ” 
Alice feigned no surprise at this announce- 


158 Kavanagh 

ment. She returned the warm pressure of 
Cecilia’s hand, and, looking affectionately in 
her face, said very calmly, — 

I knew it would be so. I knew that he 
loved you, and that you would love him.” 

How could I help it ? ” said Cecilia, her 
eyes beaming with dewy light ; could any 
one help loving him } ” 

No,” answered Alice, throwing her arms 
around Cecilia’s neck, and laying her head 
upon her shoulder ; at least, no one whom 
he loved. But when did this happen ? Tell 
me all about it, dearest ! ” 

Cecilia was surprised, and perhaps a little 
hurt, at the quiet, almost impassive manner 
in which her friend received this great intel- 
ligence. She had expected exclamations of 
wonder and delight, and such a glow of ex- 
citement as that with which she was sure 
she should have hailed the announcement of 
Alice’s engagement. But this momentary an- 
noyance was soon swept away by the tide of 
her own joyous sensations, as she proceeded 
to recall to the recollection of her friend the 
thousand little circumstances that had marked 
the progress of her love and Kavanagh’s ; 
things which she must have noticed, which 


A Tale 


^59 


she could not have forgotten ; with questions 
interspersed at intervals, such as, “ Do you 
recollect when ? ” and I am sure you have 
not forgotten, have you ? ” and dreamy little 
pauses of silence, and intercalated sighs. She 
related to her, also, the perilous adventure of 
the carrier-pigeon ; how it had been pursued 
by the cruel kingfisher ; how it had taken ref- 
uge in Kavanagh’s tower, and had been the 
bearer of his letter, as well as her own. When 
she had finished, she felt her bosom wet with 
the tears of Alice, who was suffering martyr- 
dom on that soft breast, so full of happiness. 
Tears of bitterness, — tears of blood ! And 
Cecilia, in the exultant temper of her soul at 
the moment, thought them tears of joy, and 
pressed Alice closer to her heart, and kissed 
and caressed her. 

'' Ah, how very happy you are, Cecilia ! ” 
at length sighed the poor sufferer, in that 
slightly querulous tone to which Cecilia was 
not unaccustomed ; how very happy you are, 
and how very wretched am I ! You have all 
the joy of life, I all its loneliness. How little 
you will think of me now ! How little you 
will need me ! I shall be nothing to you, — - 
you will forget me.” 


1 6 o Kavanagh 

Never, dearest!'’ exclaimed Cecilia, with 
much warmth and sincerity. shall love 
you only the more. We shall both love you. 
You will now have two friends instead of one." 

Yes ; but both will not be equal t6 the one 
I lose. No, Cecilia ; let us not make to our- 
selves any illusions. I do not. You cannot 
now be with me so much and so often as you 
have been. Even if you were, your thoughts 
would be elsewhere. Ah, I have lost my 
friend, when most I needed her I " 

Cecilia protested ardently and earnestly, and 
dilated with eagerness on her little plan of life, 
in which their romantic friendship was to gain 
only new strength and beauty from the more 
romantic love. She was interrupted by a 
knock at the street door ; on hearing which, 
she paused a moment, and then said, — 

It is Arthur. He was to call for me." 

Ah, what glimpses of home, and fireside, 
and a whole life of happiness for Cecilia, were 
revealed by that one word of love and inti- 
macy, Arthur " I and for Alice, what a sen- 
tence of doom ! what sorrow without a name I 
what an endless struggle of love and friend- 
ship, of duty and inclination ! A little quiver 
of the eyelids and the hands, a hasty motion 


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i6i 


to raise her head from Cecilia’s shoulder, — 
these were the only outward signs of emotion. 
But a terrible pang went to her heart ; her 
blood rushed eddying to her brain ; and when 
Cecilia had taken leave of her with the tri- 
umphant look of love beaming upon her brow, 
and an elevation in her whole attitude and 
bearing, as if borne up by attendant angels, 
shg sank back into her chair, exhausted, faint- 
ing, fearing, longing, hoping to die. 

And below sat the two old women, talking 
of moths, and cheap furniture, and what was 
the best remedy for rheumatism ; and from 
the door went forth two happy hearts, beating 
side by side with the pulse of youth and hope 
and joy, and within them and around them ' 
was a new heaven and a new earth ! 

Only those who have lived in a small town 
can really know how great an event therein is 
a new engagement. From tongue to tongue 
passes the swift countersign ; from eye to eye 
flashes the illumination of joy, or the bale-flre 
of alarm ; the streets and houses ring with it, 
as with the penetrating, all-pervading sound 
of the village bell ; the whole community feels 
a thrill of sympathy, and seems to congratu- 
late itself that all the great events are by no 

K 


i 62 


Kavanagh 


means confined to the great towns. As Ce- 
cilia and Kavanagh passed arm in arm through 
the village, many curious eyes watched them 
from the windows, many hearts grown cold or 
careless rekindled their household fires of love 
from the golden altar of God, borne through 
the streets by those pure and holy hands ! 

The intelligence of the engagement, how- 
ever, was received very differently by different 
persons. Mrs. Wilmerdings wondered, for her 
part, why anybody wanted to get married at 
all. The little taxidermist said he knew it 
would be so from the very first day they had 
met at his aviary. Miss Hawkins lost sudden- 
ly much of her piety and all her patience, and 
laughed rather hysterically. Mr. Hawkins said 
it was impossible, but went in secret to consult 
a friend, an old bachelor, on the best remedy 
for love ; and the old bachelor, as one well 
versed in such affairs, gravely advised him to 
think of the lady as a beautiful statue ! 

Once more the indefatigable school-girl took 
up her pen, and wrote to her foreign corre- 
spondent a letter that might rival the famous 
epistle of Madame de Sevigne to her daughter, 
announcing the engagement of Mademoiselle 
Montpensier. Through the whole of the first 


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163 


page, she told her to guess who the lady was ; 
through the whole of the second, who the gen- 
tleman was ; the third was devoted to what 
was said about it in the village ; and on the 
fourth there were two postscripts, one at the 
top and the other at the bottom, the first stat- 
ing that they were to be married in the Spring, 
and to go to Italy immediately afterwards, and 
the last, that Alice Archer was dangerously ill 
with a fever. 

As for the Churchills, they could find no 
words powerful enough to express their de- 
light, but gave vent to it in a banquet on 
Thanksgiving-day, in which the wife had all 
the trouble and the husband all the pleasure. 
In order that the entertainment might be 
worthy of the occasion, Mr. Churchill wrote 
to the city for the best cookery-book ; and the 
bookseller, executing the order in all its ampli- 
tude, sent him the Practical Guide to the Cu- 
linary Art in all its Branches, by Frascatelli, 
pupil of the celebrated Careme, and Chief 
Cook to Her Majesty the Queen, — a pon- 
derous volume, illustrated with numerous en- 
gravings, and furnished with bills of fare for 
every month in the year, and any number of 
persons. This great work was duly studied. 


1 64 Kavanagh 

evening after evening; and Mr. Churchill 
confessed to his wife, that, although at first 
startled by the size of the book, he had really 
enjoyed it very highly, and had been much 
pleased to be present in imagination at so 
many grand entertainments, and to sit oppo- 
site the Queen without having to change his 
dress or the general style of his conversation. 

The dinner hour, as well as the dinner itself 
was duly debated. Mr. Churchill was in favor 
of the usual hour of one ; but his wife thought 
it should be an hour later. Whereupon he re- 
marked, — 

'' King Henry the Eighth dined at ten 
o clock and supped at four. His queen^s maids 
of honor had a gallon of ale and a chine of 
beef for their breakfast.” 

To which his wife answered, — 

I hope we shall have something a little 
more refined than that.” 

The day on which the banquet should take 
place was next discussed, and both agreed that 
no day could be so appropriate as Thanksgiv- 
ing-day ; for, as Mrs. Churchill very truly re- 
marked, it was really a day of thanksgiving to 
Kavanagh. She then said, — 

“ How very solemnly he read the Governor’s 


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165 

Proclamation yesterday ! particularly the words 
‘ God save the Commonwealth of Massachu- 
setts ! ' And what a Proclamation it was ! 
When he spread it out on the pulpit, it looked 
like a table-cloth 

Mr. Churchill then asked, 

What day of the week is the first of De- 
cember ? Let me see, — 

‘ At Dover dwells George Brown, Esquire, 

Good Christopher Finch and Daniel Friar ! ^ 

Thursday.” 

I could have told you that,” said his wife, 
^‘by a shorter process than your old rhyme. 
Thanksgiving-day always comes on Thurs- 
day.” 

These preliminaries being duly settled, the 
dinner was given. 

There being only six guests, and the dinner 
being modelled upon one for twenty-four per- 
sons, Russian style in November, it was very 
abundant. It began with a Colbert soup, and 
ended with a Nesselrode pudding ; but as no 
allusion was made in the course of the repast 
to the French names of the dishes, and the 
mutton, and turnips, and pancakes were all 
called by their English patronymics, the din- 
ner appeared less magnificent in reality than 


1 66 


Kavanagh 


in the bill of fare, and the guests did not fully 
appreciate how superb a banquet they were 
enjoying. The hilarity of the occasion was 
not marred by any untoward accident ; though 
once or twice Mr. Churchill was much annoyed, 
and the company much amused, by Master Al- 
fred, who was allowed to be present at the 
festivities, and audibly proclaimed what was 
coming, long before it made its appearance. 
When the dinner was over, several of the 
guests remembered brilliant and appropriate 
things they might have said, and wondered 
they were so dull as not to think of them in 
season ; and when they were all gone, Mr. 
Churchill remarked to his wife that he had 
enjoyed himself very much, and that he should 
like to ask his friends to just such a dinner 
every week ! 


A Tale 


167 


XXVIII. 


HE first snow came. How beautiful it 



-A. was, falling so silently, all day long, all 
night long, on the mountains, on the meadows, 
on the roofs of the living, on the graves of the 
dead ! All white save the river, that marked 
its course by a winding black line across the 
landscape ; and the leafless trees, that against 
the leaden sky now revealed more fully the 
wonderful beauty and intricacy of their branch- 


What silence, too, came with the snow, and 
what seclusion ! Every sound was muffled, 
every noise changed to something soft and 
musical. No more trampling hoofs, — no more 
rattling wheels ! Only the chiming sleigh- 
bells, beating as swift and merrily as the 
hearts of children. 

All day long, all night long, the snow fell 
on the village and on the churchyard ; on the 
happy home of Cecilia Vaughan, on the lonely 
grave of Alice Archer! Yes ; for before the 
winter came she had gone to that land where 


1 68 Kavanagh 

winter never comes. Her long domestic trage- 
dy was ended. She was dead ; and with her 
had died her secret sorrow and her secret love. 
Kavanagh never knew what wealth of affection 
for him faded from the world when she depart- 
ed ; Cecilia never knew what fidelity of friend- 
ship, what delicate regard, what gentle magna- 
nimity, what angelic patience, had gone with 
her into the grave ; Mr. Churchill never knew, 
that, while he was exploring the Past for rec- 
ords of obscure and unknown martyrs, in his 
owm village, near his own door, before his own 
eyes, one of that silent sisterhood had passed 
away into oblivion, unnoticed and unknown. 

How often, ah, how often, between the de- 
sire of the heart and its fulfilment, lies only 
the briefest space of time and distance, and 
yet the desire remains forever unfulfilled ! It 
is so near that we can touch it with the hand, 
and yet so far away that the eye cannot per- 
ceive- it. What Mr. Churchill most desired 
was before him. The Romance he was long- 
ing to find and record had really occurred in 
his neighborhood, among his own friends. It 
had been set like a picture into the frame-work 
of his life, enclosed within his own experience. 
But he could not see it as an object apart fronj 


A Tale 


169 


himself ; and as he was gazing at what was re- 
mote and strange and indistinct, the nearer in- 
cidents of aspiration, love, and death, escaped 
him. They were too near to be clothed by the 
imagination with the golden vapors of romance ; 
for the familiar seems trivial, and only the dis- 
tant and unknown completely fill and satisfy 
the mind. 

The winter did not pass without its peculiar 
delights and recreations. The singing of the 
great wood fires ; the blowing of the wind 
over the chimney-tops, as if they were organ 
pipes ; the splendor of the spotless snow ; the 
purple wall built round the horizon at sunset ; 
the sea-suggesting pines, with the moan of the 
billows in their branches, on which the snows 
were furled like sails ; the northern lights ; 
the stars of steel ; the transcendent moon- 
light, and the lovely shadows of the leafless 
trees upon the snow ; — these things did not 
pass unnoticed nor unremembered. Every 
one of them made its record upon the heart 
of Mr. Churchill. 

His twilight walks, his long Saturday after- 
noon rambles, had again become solitary ; for 
Kavanagh was lost to him for such purposes, 
and his wife was one of those women who 
8 


170 


Kavanagh 


never walk. Sometimes he went down to the 
banks of the frozen river, and saw the farmers 
crossing it with their heavy-laden sleds, and 
the Fairmeadow schooner imbedded in the 
ice; and thought of Lapland sledges, and 
the song of Kulnasatz, and the dismantled, 
ice-locked vessels of the explorers in the Arc- 
tic Ocean. Sometimes he went to the neigh- 
bcfring lake, and saw the skaters wheeling 
round their fire, and speeding away before the 
wind ; and in his imagination arose images of 
the Norwegian Skate-Runners, bearing the 
tidings of King Charles’s death from Fred- 
erickshall to Drontheim, and of the retreat- 
ing Swedish army, frozen to death in its 
fireless tents among the mountains. And 
then he would watch the cutting of the ice 
with ploughs, and the horses dragging the 
huge blocks to the storehouses, and contrast 
them with the Grecian mules, bearing the 
snows of Mount Parnassus to the markets of 
Athens, in panniers, protected from the sun 
by boughs of oleander and rhododendron. 

The rest of his leisure hours were employed 
in anything and everything save in writing his 
Romance. A great deal of time was daily con- 
sumed in reading the newspapers, because it 


A Tale 


171 

was necessary, he said, to keep up with the 
times ; and a great deal more in writing a 
Lyceum Lecture, on “What Lady Macbeth 
might have been, had her energies been prop- 
erly directed.” He also made some little pro- 
gress in a poetical arithmetic, founded on 
Bhascara’s, but relinquished it, because the 
school committee thought it was not practical 
enough, and more than hinted that he had 
better adhere to the old system. And still 
the vision of the great Romance moved before 
his mind, august and glorious, a beautiful 
mirage of the desert. 


172 


Kavanagh 


XXIX. 


HE wedding did not take place till 



spring. And then Kavanagh and his 
Cecilia departed on their journey to Italy and 
the East, — a sacred mission, a visit like the 
Apostle’s to the Seven Churches, nay, to all 
the Churches of Christendom ; he hoping by 
some means to sow in many devout hearts 
the desire and prophecy that filled his own, — 
the union of all sects into one universal 
Church of Christ. They intended to be ab- 
sent one year only ; they were gone three. 
It seemed to their friends that they never 
would return. But at length they came, — 
the long absent, the long looked for, the long 
desired, — bearing with them that delicious 
perfume of travel, that genial, sunny atmos- 
phere, and soft, Ausonian air, which returning 
travellers always bring about them. 

It was night when they reached the village, 
and they could not see what changes had 
taken place in it during their absence. How 
it had dilated and magnified itself, — how it 


A Tale 


173 


had puffed itself up, and bedizened itself with 
flaunting, ostentatious signs, — how it stood, 
rotund and rubicund with brick, like a portly 
man, with his back to the fire and both hands 
in his pockets, warm, expansive, apoplectic, 
and entertaining a very favorable opinion of 
himself, — all this they did not see, for the 
darkness ; but Kavanagh beheld it all, and 
more, when he went forth on the following 
morning. 

How Cecilia's heart beat as they drove up 
the avenue to the old house ! The piny odors 
in the night air, the solitary light at her fa- 
ther’s window, the familiar bark of the dog 
Major at the sound of the wheels, awakened 
feelings at once new and old. A sweet per- 
plexity of thought, a strange familiarity, a no 
less pleasing strangeness ! The lifting of the 
heavy brass latch, and the jarring of the heavy 
brass knocker as the door closed, were echoes 
from her childhood. Mr. Vaughan they found, 
as usual, among his papers in the study ; — the 
same bland, white-haired man, hardly a day 
older than when they left him there. To Ce- 
cilia the whole long absence in Italy became a 
dream, and vanished away. Even Kavanagh 
was for the moment forgotten. She was a 


174 


Kavanagh 


daughter, not a wife ; — she had not been 
married, she had not been in Italy ! 

In the morning, Kavanagh sallied forth to 
find the Fairmeadow of his memory, but found 
it not. The railroad had completely trans- 
formed it. The simple village had become a 
very precocious town. New shops, with new 
names over the doors ; new streets, with new 
forms and faces in them ; the whole town 
seemed to have been taken and occupied by a 
besieging army of strangers. Nothing was 
permanent but the workhouse, standing alone 
in the pasture by the river ; and, at the end of 
the street, the school-house, that other work- 
house, where in childhood we twist and un- 
twist the cordage of the brain, that, later 
in life, we may not be obliged to pull to 
pieces the more material cordage of old 
ships. 

Kavanagh soon turned in despair from the 
main street into a little green lane, where 
there were few houses, and where the bar- 
berry still nodded over the old stone wall ; — 
a place he had much loved in the olden time 
for its silence and seclusion. He seemed to 
have entered his ancient realm of dreams 
again, and was walking with his hat drawn a 


A Tale 


175 


little over his eyes. He had not proceeded 
far, when he was startled by a woman’s voice, 
quite sharp and loud, crying from the oppo- 
site side of the lane. Looking up, he beheld 
a small cottage, against the wall of which 
rested a ladder, and on this ladder stood the 
woman from whom the voice came. Her face 
was nearly concealed by a spacious gingham 
sun-bonnet, and in her right hand she held 
extended a large brush, with which she was 
painting the front of her cottage, when inter- 
rupted by the approach of Kavanagh, who, 
thinking she was calling to him, but not 
understanding what she said, made haste to 
cross over to her assistance. At this move- 
ment her tone became louder and more per- 
emptory ; and he could now understand that 
her cry was rather a warning than an invita- 
tion. 

Go away ! ’’ she said, flourishing her brush. 

Go away ! What are you coming down here 
for, when I am on the ladder, painting my 
house ? If you don’t go right about your busi- 
ness, I will come down and ” 

‘‘Why, Miss Manchester !” exclaimed Kav- 
anagh ; ‘'how could I know that you would be 
going up the ladder just as I came down the 
lane .? " 


1 76 Kavanagh 

''Well, I declare! If it is not Mr. Kav- 
anagh I 

And she scrambled down the ladder back- 
wards with as much grace as the circumstances 
permitted. She, too, like the rest of his friends 
in the village, showed symptoms of growing 
older. The passing years had drunk a por- 
tion of the light from her eyes, and left their 
traces on her cheeks, as birds that drink at 
lakes leave their footprints on the margin. 
But the pleasant smile remained, and remind- 
ed him of the bygone days, when she used to 
open for him the door of the gloomy house 
under the poplars. 

Many things had she to ask, and many to 
tell ; and for full half an hour Kavanagh stood 
leaning over the paling, while she remained 
among the hollyhocks, as stately and red as 
the plants themselves. At parting, she gave 
him one of the flowers for his wife ; and, when 
he was fairly out of sight, again climbed the 
perilous ladder, and resumed her fresco paint- 
ing. 

Through all the vicissitudes of these later 
years, Sally had remained true to her princi- 
ples and resolution. At Mrs. Archer’s death, 
which occurred soon after Kavanagh’s wed- 


A Tale 


177 


ding, she had retired to this little cottage, 
bought and paid for by her own savings. 
Though often urged by Mr. Vaughan’s man, 
Silas, who breathed his soul out upon the air 
of summer evenings through a keyed bugle, 
she resolutely refused to marry. In vain did 
he send her letters written with his own blood, 
— going barefooted into the brook to be bit- 
ten by leeches, and then using his feet as ink- 
stands : she refused again and again. Was it 
that in some blue chamber, or some little 
warm back parlor, of her heart, the portrait of 
the inconstant dentist was still hanging } 
Alas, no ! But as to some hearts it is given 
in youth to blossom with the fragrant blooms 
of young desire, so others are doomed by a 
mysterious destiny to be checked in Spring by 
chill winds, blowing over the bleak common 
of the world. So had it been with her desires 
and thoughts of love. Fear now predomi- 
nated over hope ; and to die unmarried had 
become to her a fatality which she dared not 
resist. 

In the course of his long conversation with 
Miss Manchester, Kavanagh learned many 
things about the inhabitants of the town. 
Mrs. Wilmerdings was still carrying on her 

8* L 


178 


Kavanagh 


labors in the " Dunstable and eleven-braid, 
open-work and colored straws.” Her hus- 
band had taken to the tavern, and often came 
home very late, “ with a brick in his hat,” as 
Sally expressed it. Their son and heir was 
far away in the Pacific, on board a whale-ship. 
Miss Amelia Hawkins remained unmarried, 
though possessing a talent for matrimony 
which amounted almost to genius. Her broth- 
er, the poet, was no more. Finding it impos- 
sible to follow the old bachelor’s advice, and 
look upon Miss Vaughan as a beautiful statue, 
he made one or two attempts, but in vain, to 
throw himself away on unworthy objects, and 
then died. At this event, two elderly maidens 
went into mourning simultaneously, each think- 
ing herself engaged to him ; and suddenly went 
out of it again, mutually indignant with each 
other, and mortified with themselves. The lit- 
tle taxidermist was still hopping about in his 
aviary, looking more than ever like his gray 
African parrot. Mrs. Archer’s house was un- 
inhabited. 


A Tale 


179 


XXX. 


AVANAGH continued his walk in the 



Av. direction of Mr. Churchill’s residence. 
This, at least, was unchanged, — quite un- 
changed. The same white front; the same 
brass knocker ; the same old wooden gate, 
with its chain and ball; the same damask 
roses under the windows ; the same sunshine 
without and within. The outer door and study 
door were both open, as usual in the warm 
weather; and at the table sat Mr. Churchill, 
writing. Over each ear was a black and inky 
stump of a pen, which, like the two ravens 
perched on Odin’s shoulders, seemed to whis- 
per to him all that passed in heaven and on 
earth. On this occasion, their revelations 
were of the earth. He was correcting school 
exercises. 

The joyful welcome of Mr. Churchill, as 
Kavanagh entered, and the cheerful sound of 
their voices, soon brought Mrs. Churchill to 
the study, — her eyes bluer than ever, her 
cheeks fairer, her form more round and full. 


i8o 


Kavanagh 


The children came in also, — Alfred grown to 
boy’s estate and exalted into a jacket ; and the 
baby that was, less than two years behind him, 
and catching all his falling mantles, and all his 
tricks and maladies. 

Kavanagh found Mr. Churchill precisely 
where he left him. He had not advanced 
one step, — not one. The same dreams, the 
same longings, the same aspirations, the same 
indecision. A thousand things had been 
planned, and none completed. His imagin- 
ation seemed still to exhaust itself in running, 
before it tried to leap the ditch. While he 
mused, /the fire burned in other brains. Other 
hands wrote the books he dreamed about. He 
freely used his good ideas in conversation, and 
in letters ; and they were straightway wrought 
into the texture of other men’s books, and so 
lost to him forever. His work on Obscure 
Martyrs was anticipated by Mr. Hathaway, 
who, catching the idea from him, wrote and 
published a series of papers on Unknown 
Saints, before Mr. Churchill had fairly ar- 
ranged his materials. Before he had written 
a chapter of his great Romance, another 
friend and novelist had published one on 
the same subject. 


A Tale 


i8i 


Poor Mr. Churchill ! So far as fame and 
external success were concerned, his life cer- 
tainly was a failure. He was, perhaps, too 
deeply freighted, too much laden by the 
head, to ride the waves gracefully. Every 
sea broke over him, — he was half the time 
under water ! 

All his defects and mortifications he attrib- 
uted to the outwarc^ circumstances of his life, 
the exigencies of his profession, the accidents 
of chance. But, in reality, they lay much 
deeper than this. They were within himself. 
He wanted the all-controlling, all-subduing 
will. He wanted the fixed purpose that 
sways and bends all circumstances to its 
uses, as the wind bends the reeds and rushes 
beneath it. 

In a few minutes, and in that broad style of 
handling, in which nothing is distinctly de- 
fined, but everything clearly suggested, Kav- 
anagh sketched to his friends his three years’ 
life in Italy and the East. And then, turning 
to Mr. Churchill, he said, — 

“ And you, my friend, — what have you 
been doiiig all this while You have written 
to me so rarely that I have hardly kept pace 
with you. But I have thought of you con- 


i 82 


Kavanagh 


stantly. In all the old cathedrals ; in all the 
lovely landscapes, among the Alps and Apen- 
nines ; in looking down on Duomo d’Ossola ; 
at the Inn of Baveno ; at Gaeta ; at Naples ; in 
old and mouldy Rome ; in older Egypt ; in the 
Holy Land ; in all galleries and churches and 
ruins; in our rural retirement at Fiesoli ; — 
whenever I have seen anything beautiful, I 
have thought of you, an^ of how much you 
would have enjoyed it ! ” 

Mr. Churchill sighed ; and then, as if, with 
a touch as masterly, he would draw a picture 
that should define nothing, but suggest every- 
thing, he said, — 

‘‘You have no children, Kavanagh; we have 
five.” 

“ Ah, so many already ! ” exclaimed Kav- 
anagh, “ A living Pentateuch ! A beautiful 
Pentapylon, or five-gated temple of Life ! A. 
charming number ! ” 

“Yes,” answered Mr. Churchill ; “a beauti- 
ful number ; Juno’s own ; the wedding of the 
first even and first uneven numbers ; the num- 
ber sacred to marriage, but having no reference, 
direct or indirect, to the Pythagorean novitiate 
of five years of silence.” 

“No; it certainly is not the vocation of chib 


A Tale 


183 


dren to be silent/' said Kavanagh, laughing. 
‘‘ That would be out of nature ; saying always 
the children of the brain, which do not often 
make so much noise in the world as we desire. 
I hope a still larger family of these has grown 
up around you during my absence." 

“ Quite otherwise," answered the schoolmas- 
ter, sadly. ‘‘My brain has been almost barren 
of songs. I have only been trifling ; and I am 
afraid, that, if I play any longer with Apollo, 
the untoward winds will blow the discus of the 
god against my forehead, and strike me dead 
with it, as they did Hyacinth of old." 

“And your Romance, — have you been more 
successful with that } I hope it is finished, or 
nearly finished } " 

“Not yet begun," said Mr. Churchill. “The 
plan and characters still remain vague and in- 
definite in my mind. I have not even found a 
name for it." 

“ That you can determine after the book is 
written," suggested Kavanagh. ■ “You can 
name it, for instance, as the old Heimskringla 
was named, from the initial word of the first 
chapter." 

“ Ah ! that was very well in the olden time, 
and in Iceland, when there were no quarter- 


1 84 Kavanagh 

ly reviews. It would be called affectation 
now.” 

I see you still stand a little in awe of opin- 
ion. Never fear that. The strength of criti- 
cism lies only in the weakness of the thing 
criticised.” 

That is the truth, Kavanagh ; and I am 
more afraid of deserving criticism than of re- 
ceiving it. I stand in awe of my own opin- 
ion. The secret demerits of which we alone, 
perhaps, are conscious, are often more difficult 
to bear than those which have been publicly 
censured in us, and thus in some degree 
atoned for. ” 

‘‘ I will not say, ” replied Kavanagh, that 
humility is the only road to excellence, but 
I am sure that it is one road.” 

“Yes, humility; but not humiliation,” sighed 
Mr. Churchill, despondingly. ‘'As for excel- 
lence, I can only desire it and dream of it ; I 
cannot attain to it ; it lies too far from me ; I 
cannot reach it. These very books about me 
here, that once stimulated me to action, have 
now become my accusers. They are my Eu- 
menides, and drive me to despair.” 

“ My friend,” said Kavanagh, after a short 
pause, during which he had taken note of Mr. 


A Tale 


185 


Churchiirs sadness, that is not always excel- 
ent which lies far away from us. What is 
remote and difficult of access we are apt to 
overrate ; what is really best for us lies always 
within our reach, though often overlooked. 
To speak frankly, I am afraid this is the case 
with your Romance. You are evidently grasp- 
ing at something which lies beyond the con- 
fines of your own experience, and which, 
consequently, is only a play of shadows in 
the realm of fancy. The figures have no vi- 
tality ; they are only outward shows, wanting 
inward life. We can give to others only what 
we have.” 

'' And if we have nothing worth giving } ” 
interrupted Mr. Churchill. 

“No man is so poor as that. As well 
might the mountain streamlets say they have 
nothing worth giving to the sea, because they 
are not rivers. Give what you have. To 
some one, it may be better than you dare to 
think. If you had looked nearer for the ma- 
terials of your Romance, and had set about it 
in earnest, it would now have been finished. ” 

“ And burned, perhaps, ” interposed Mr. 
Churchill ; “ or sunk with the books of Simon 
Magus to the bottom of the Dead Sea. ” 


i86 


Kavanagh 


‘‘ At all events, you would have had the 
pleasure of writing it. I remember one of 
the old traditions of Art, from which you 
may perhaps draw a moral. When Raphael 
desired to paint his Holy Family, for a long 
time he strove in vain to express the idea that 
filled and possessed his soul. One morning, 
as he walked beyond the city gates, meditat- 
ing the sacred theme, he beheld, sitting be- 
neath a vine at her cottage door, a peasant 
woman, holding a boy in her arms, while 
another leaned upon her knee, and gazed at 
the approaching stranger. The painter found 
here, in real life, what he had so long sought 
for in vain in the realms of his imagination ; 
and quickly, with his chalk pencil, he sketched, 
upon the head of a wine-cask that stood near 
them, the lovely group, which afterwards, when 
brought into full perfection, became the tran- 
scendent Madonna della Seggiola.” 

‘‘All this is true,’' replied Mr. Churchill, 
“.but it gives me no consolation. I now de- 
spair of writing anything excellent. I have no 
time to devote to meditation and study. My 
life is given to others, and to this destiny I 
submit without a murmur ; for I have the sat- 
isfaction of having labored faithfully in my 


A Tale 


187 


calling, and of having perhaps trained and 
incited others to do what I shall never do. V 
Life is still precious to me for its many uses, 
of which the writing of books is but one. 

I do not complain, but accept this destiny, 
and say, with that pleasant author, Marcus 
Antoninus, 'Whatever is agreeable to thee 
shall be agreeable to me, O graceful Uni- 
verse ! nothing shall be to me too early or 
too late, which is seasonable to thee ! What- 
ever thy seasons bear shall be joyful fruit to 
me, O Nature ! from thee are all things ; 
in thee they subsist ; to thee they return. 

Could one say. Thou dearly beloved city of 
Cecrops } and wilt thou not say. Thou dearly 
beloved city of God } ’ 

" Amen ! '' said Kavanagh. " And, to fol- 
low your quotation with another, ' The gale 
that blows from God we must endure, toiling 
but not repining. ' 

Here Mrs. Churchill, who had something of 
Martha in her, as well as of Mary, and had 
left the room when the conversation took a 
literary turn, came back to announce that din- 
ner was ready, and Kavanagh, though warmly 
urged to stay, took his leave, having first ob- 
tained from the Churchills the promise of a 
visit to Cecilia during the evening. 


Kavanagh 


1 88 

Nothing done ! nothing done ! ” exclaimed 
he, as he wended his way homeward, musing 
and meditating. ‘^And shall all these lofty 
aspirations end in nothing } Shall the arms 
be thus stretched forth to encircle the uni- 
verse, and come back empty against a bleed- 
ing, aching breast } ” 

And the words of the poet came into his 
mind, and he thought them worthy to be writ- 
ten in letters of gold, and placed above every 
door in every house, as a warning, a sugges- 
tion, an incitement : — 

“ Stay, stay the present instant ! 

Imprint the marks of wisdom on its wings ! 

O, let it not elude thy grasp, but like 
The good old patriarch upon record. 

Hold the fleet angel fast until he thee ! ” 


DRIFT-WOOD 


So must I likewise take some time to view 
What I have done, ere I proceed anew. 
Perhaps I may have cause to interline, 

To alter, or to add ; the work is mine. 

And I may manage it as I see best. 

Quarles. 





ANCIENT FRENCH ROMANCES 


FROM THE FRENCH OF PAULIN PARIS* 


1833 



HE very name of Queen Bertha carries 


us back to the remotest period of the 
good old times. Many an ancient romance 
records the praises of her unspotted virtue ; 
and, if we may rely upon the testimony of a 
song-writer of the nineteenth century, it was 
she who founded the monastery of Sainte- 
Avelle, dedicated to Our Lady of the Woods. 
I know not whether you have ever observed 
among the statues that look down upon us 
from the portals of our Gothic churches, the 
figure known throughout France by the name 
of la Reine Pcdattque, Queen Goose-Foot. She 
is the heroine of our romance ; and, be it said 
with all the veracity of an historian, for this 
opprobrious surname she must thank her own 

* A Letter to M. de Monmerque prefixed to Li Romans de 
Berte aus Grans Pies^ and reprinted in Ferussac^s BiUletin 
Universel^ from which this translation was made. 


4 


Drift-Wood 


feet, whose vast dimensions are revealed to us 
by the indiscretion of the statuary. During 
her lifetime she was surnamed Bertha of the 
Great-Feet ; after her death, she was neither 
more nor less than Bertha of the Goose-Feet. 
So true is it that the origin of the custom of 
flattering the great while living, and reviling 
them when dead, is lost in the night of ages. 
The story of Queen Pedauque reminds me of 
poor Midas ; perhaps the ears of the Phrygian 
monarch, who fell a victim to the malevolence of 
his barber, were in truth only somewhat long. 

This statue of Queen P6dauque has long 
exercised the imagination of the antiquaries. 
They have successively imagined it to be Clo- 
tilde, wife of Clovis, Brunehault, and Fr4dd- 
gonde. The Abbe Leboeuf, however, supposes 
it to be the queen of Sheba ; though it is no 
easy matter to devise why the Abbd Leboeuf, 
generally so very considerate, should thus 
have felt himself obliged to call in question 
the beauty of the Oriental princess, and the 
practised taste of Solomon, the wisest of men. 
He remarks, in his learned dissertation, that 
the Masorites, who were great admirers of the 
hands of the queen of Sheba, have maintained 
the most scrupulous silence in regard to her 


Ancient French Romances 5 

feet : — there is, however, a vast distance be- 
tween the silence of Biblical commentators, 
and the conjecture he allows himself. 

Now both the historians and the poets, who 
make mention of Queen Bertha, affirm that 
she had large feet ; and this is the first point 
of analogy between her and the celebrated 
statue. Moreover, the inhabitants of Tou- 
louse, according to the author of the Contes cF 
Eutrapel, are in the habit of swearing by the 
distaff of Queen Pddauque, — par la quenouille 
de la reine Pedaiique ; while we speak pro- 
verbially of the time when Bertha span, — du 
temps que Berthe filait ; and the Italians say, 
in nearly the same signification, “The days 
when Bertha span have gone by,” — Non I piti 
il tempo che Berta filava. After all this, and 
especially after the direct testimony of the 
poem which I now present you, how can any 
one doubt the perfect identity of Bertha of 
the Great Feet, and the Queen of the Goose 
Feet } I entertain a high respect for the Abbd 
Leboeuf, but a higher for the truth ; and I 
cannot refrain from expressing my opinion, 
that he would have done better to look to 
the court of Pepin-le-Bref for the model of 
the statue which he saw at the church of 


6 


Drift- Wood 


Saint-Benigne in Dijon, at the cathedral of 
Nevers, at the priory of Saint-Pourgain, and 
at the abbey of Nesle. 

Bertha, the wife of Pepin, has been often 
named by the most respectable historians. 
She died in 783, and until the revolution of 
1793 her tomb was still to be seen in the 
vaults of Saint-Denis. It bore this beauti- 
ful inscription : Berta mater Caroli Magni, 
Eginhart speaks of the respectful defer- 
ence which the hero of the West generally 
paid to the virtues of his mother. All histo- 
rians coincide in regard to the time of her cor- 
onation and her death ; but in regard to the 
name of her father, some difference of opin- 
ion prevails. According to the Annals of 
Metz,” she was the daughter of Caribert, 
Count of Laon ; but unfortunately for this 
hypothesis, the city of Laon was not at that 
time governed by a count. Some trace her 
origin to the court of Constantinople, and 
others to the kingdom of Germany. You will 
perceive that our poet has embraced this last 
opinion. In the romance, Flores, king of Hun- 
gary, is father of Bertha of the Great Feet. 
This Flores himself and his wife Blanche- 
fleurs are the hero and heroine of another 


Ancient French Romances 7 

celebrated poem of the. Middle Ages, and 
their adventures, badly enough analyzed in 
one of the numbers of the Bibliothique des 
Romans^ seem to have been put into rhyme 
before those of Queen Bertha their daughter. 

Thus, it appears that Bertha can boast her 
statuaries as well as her poets ; but whilst 
the former have given to her countenance a 
majked and striking character, the latter, by 
recording her touching misfortunes, have only 
followed the beaten path, and added another 
delicate flower to that poetic wreath, which 
was woven in the heroic ages of our history. 
The poem of Bertha is one of the series of 
“ Romances of the Twelve Peers.’' It belongs 
to the number of those great epic composi- 
tions, whose origin is incontestably linked 
to the cradle of the modern languages, and 
whose subjects are always borrowed from our 
old national traditions. 

Until the present day, both critics and an- 
tiquaries have neglected to examine these sin- 
gular creations of the human mind. Even 
those who have been wise enough to avail 
themselves of them in the composition of 
their learned works, have gone no farther 
than to make such extracts as would throw 


8 


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fight upon the subjects of heraldry or phi- 
lology, hardly bestowing a passing glance 
upon those questions of manners and litera- 
ture which they might suggest, enlighten, 
and perhaps resolve. It is strange that the 
press should have been so busy in giving to 
the world the Fabliaux^ which lay buried in 
our vast libraries, and yet should never have 
preserved from the most unmerited oblivion a 
single one of these ancient epics ! If by a 
catastrophe, improbable, yet not impossible, 
the Royal Cabinet of Manuscripts should be 
destroyed, nothing of our old heroic poetry 
would remain but a few shreds scattered here 
and there through the Glossary” of Ducange 
and the History of Lorraine ” by Dom Cal- 
met. Such a loss would indeed be immense 
and irreparable to those who wish, even at this 
distant period, to study the manners and cus- 
toms of our ancestors. 

Perhaps, then, I may justly claim some right 
to the thanks of the friends of letters for this 
attempt to preserve and perpetuate the ''Ro- 
mances of the Twelve Peers of France.” I 
now commence the series of these publica- 
tions with Berte aus Grans Pies. In selecting 
this poem of the minstrel-king Adenes, I have 


Ancient French Romances 


9 


been guided by the consideration, that, in or- 
der to gain readers for our ancient poets, it 
would be necessary to commence, not with 
the most beautiful, but with the shortest, and 
the least encumbered with philological diffi- 
culties. And again, the romance of Bertha, 
however inferior it may be to some of the 
longer romances of the twelfth century, as, 
for example, Raoul de Cambrai, Guillaume au 
Court NeZy or Garin de Loheram, nevertheless 
possesses the most lively interest for readers 
of the present age. Besides, as its subject is 
drawn from the close of the reign of Pepin- 
le-Bref, it has the advantage of commencing 
that series of historic paintings, of which the 
eighth and ninth centuries are the frame. 

And now I will venture a few reflections 
upon the structure of all these great works, 
which I would willingly call our French 
Epics, had it not been decided, since the 
days of Ron sard, Chapelain, and Voltaire, 
that the French have no genius for epic 
poetry, and had not the word Epic, which 
always recalls the Iliad of Homer, been of 
late so much abused. But in thus submit- 
ting my opinions to your judgment, I feel 
myself bound to advance nothing either in- 


lO 


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correct or imaginary. Besides, I am well 
aware that at length we have become quite 
weary of those long and admirable theories, 
to which nothing is wanting but proof. All 
mine will be found in the works concerning 
which I now write to you, and which I intend 
to publish in succession, if leisure and the fa- 
vor of the public permit. 

Independently of sacred subjects, the early 
French poets or Troiivhes of the Middle Ages 
possessed three distinct sources of inspiration ; 
the traditions of classic antiquity, of the Brit- 
ons, and of the French. All the chief com- 
positions in the vulgar tongue, down to the 
thirteenth century, may be traced back to one 
of these three sources. 

To the first belong the numerous poems 
of Alexander the Great, Philip of Macedon, 
-^neas, the valiant Hector, Jason, and The- 
seus. But this class of traditions has lost 
all its value, through our study of the ele- 
ments of ancient history. In proportion as 
we have been farther removed from antiquity, 
we have become better acquainted with it. 
The writers of the Middle Ages were all 
more or less the dupes of the simplicity of 
their oWn times ; they could never compre- 


Ancient Fre7tch Romances 


1 1 

hend the distinction between the fictions of 
the poets of the historic ages, and the nar- 
ratives of prose-writers. And hence, blend- 
ing the most marvellous tales with the more 
authentic events of history, they have made of 
the records of antiquity a confused picture, 
totally destitute of every kind of perspective. 
We can derive no possible advantage, then, 
from their undiscriminating imitations ; and 
their simple credulity, exercised alike towards 
Ovid and Cornelius Nepos, soon becomes in- 
supportable. 

The traditions of the Britons, however, are 
full of lively interest. The romances of the 
Round Table, which have sprung from these 
traditions, refer us back to a glorious epoch in 
the history of Albion ; an epoch, of which, by 
some strange fatality, no distinct account has 
been transmitted to us. All that we can be 
said to know is, that in the fifth century, whilst 
Clovis was laying the foundation of the French 
empire, the Britons, more successful than the 
Gauls, repulsed the hordes of Piets, Angles, 
and Saxons who menaced them on all sides. 
Arthur was then their king. A century later, 
having fallen a prey to those fierce barbari- 
ans, the Britons cherished the memory of a 


12 


Drift- Wood 


hero, whose name represented all that a noble-* 
minded people esteems most dear on earth, — • 
religion and liberty. Songs of departed glory 
are the privilege of a conquered people, and 
prophetic hopes are a consolation seldom want- 
ing to the oppressed. Thus sprang up and 
multiplied those marvellous tales, which re- 
corded the glory of Arthur, and in which the 
recollection of former victories was joined to 
the promise of victories yet to come. Not far 
from the twelfth century, a priest collected 
various traditions, and wrought them up into 
those religious forms in which his zeal prompt- 
ed him to embody them. This collection, origi- 
nally written in Latin, was afterwards trans- 
lated into the vulgar tongue in prose during 
the reign of Henry the Second, father of Rich- 
ard Coeur de Lion. Erelong it reappeared in 
a poetic dress in all the modern languages of 
Europe. Even at the present day the old 
prose translation would be a work full of 
pleasant reading. 

Still we cannot hope to trace the footsteps of 
history in these romances of the Round Table; 
for the primitive story is lost amid the multi- 
tude of episodes and embellishments. Except- 
ing the name of the hero, whose deeds they 


Ancient French Romances 


13 


celebrate, there is nothing — I do not say Cel- 
tic, for that would be too indefinite — nothing 
Armoric about them. The heroic valor of King 
Arthur is displayed throughout ; — but it is 
directed against giants, wild beasts, or the ad- 
versaries of persecuted beauty, and not against 
the oppressors of his country. His steed is 
barbed with iron, and we recognize the gallant 
warrior s shield by its golden crowns in a field 
of blue; — but his good sword Excalibur seems 
rather the handiwork of a skilful Norman ar- 
tisan, than of an ancient blacksmith of Ar- 
morica. Let us not, then, seek in these old 
romances the history of ages anterior to the 
Roman, Saxon, or even Norman conquest ; 
— it would be a loss of time and labor. But 
if we desire only piquant adventures of love 
and gallantry, fierce sabre-blows, and terrible 
encounters of Pagans and Christians, we shall 
find enough to repay the study of this ancient 
lore ; — particularly if we take care to peruse 
the oldest prose translations. 

We now come to the old romances, which 
have their source in our national traditions. 
These are the true standard of our ancient 
poetry ; for surely you would not pretend, that 
it could claim a very elevated rank in the his- 


14 


Drift- Wood 


tory of the human mind, if it could boast no 
other masterpieces than such epics as the 
Alexandreide or Perceval ; such dramas as the 
Mysthe de Saint Christopher or even the curi- 
ous and simple pastoral of Robin et Marion^ 
for whose publication we are indebted to you ; 
and, in fine, such satires as our coarse and 
vulgar Fabliaux, which (as one of our most 
profound and erudite scholars has remarked) 
are generally full of such insipid marvels. Not 
having sufficiently compared the various pro- 
ductions of the Middle Ages, we have hitherto 
been in the habit of passing judgment upon 
them, if I may use the phrase, in the lump, 
and with a sweeping expression of unlimited 
praise or censure. Those who have been dis- 
heartened by the Romance of the Rose,’' * 

* “ Ce est li Rommanz de la Roze 
Ou Tart d’amors est tote enclose. ” 

The “Romance of the Rose” is an allegorical poem of no 
inconsiderable fame. It was commenced about the middle of 
the thirteenth century by Guillaume de Lorris, and completed 
nearly a half-century later by Jean de Meun. The bitter sar- 
casms against the corruption and hypocrisy of the priesthood 
contained in this Romaunt drew upon it and its authors the 
anathemas of the clergy. A certain Gerson, then Chancellor 
of Paris, writes thus of Meun and his book : “ There is one 
Johannes Meldinensis, who wrote a book called ‘ The Ro- 
maunt of the Rose ’ ; which book, if I only had, and that 


Ancient French Romances 


15 


or the ‘‘ Tales of Barbazan,” * can discover 
nothing in our ancient literature but a con- 
fused mass of coarse and tedious fictions. To 
others, whom a more superficial study of the 
classics has rendered more indulgent in their 
opinions, these same productions appear in a 
far different light, possessing a grace, a charm, 
a simplicity, that no language can describe ; 
— nay, the very sight of a manuscript blotted 
with ink of the fourteenth century is enough 
to excite their enthusiasm. Midway between 
these two contending parties, and on the field 
which you have trodden before them, all ju- 
dicious critics will hereafter pitch their tents. 
True, it is painful thus to annoy the doughty 
champions of the ancient Muse of France ; 
but the love of the Middle Ages bears an en- 
chanter s wand, and leads its votaries blind- 

there were no more in the world, if I might have five hundred 
pound for the same, I would rather burn it than take the 
money. About the middle of the fourteenth century the 
“ Romance of the Rose was translated into English by 
Chaucer, under the title of “The Romaunt of the Rose ; or 
the Art of Love ; wherein is showed the helpes and further- 
ances, and also the lets and impediments that lovers have in 
their suits.” Tr. 

* Fabliaux et Contes des Poetes Francois des XI., XII., 
XIII., XIV. et XV. Siecles, tires des Meilleurs Auteurs; 
Dublies par Barbazan. 4 vols. 8vo. Tr. 


i6 


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fold ; and I fear, that if, like them, we should 
proclaim the merit of so many productions, 
composed by ignorant mountebanks to amuse 
the populace, we should give occasion for the 
belief, that we are incapable of appreciating 
the full value of those great poems, which 
were destined to charm the most brilliant as- 
semblies, and grace the most magnificent fes- 
tivals. 

The same remark is true of the Middle 
Ages, as of our own, and of every age. If 
the state of society is shadowed forth in its 
literature, then this literature must necessari- 
ly represent two distinct and strongly marked 
characters ; — one, of the castle and the court ; 
another, of the middle classes and the popu- 
lace ; — the former, elegant, harmonious, and 
delicate ; the latter, rude, grotesque, and vul- 
gar. Each of these classes has its own pecu- 
liar merits ; but our manuscripts, by presenting 
them to us united, sometimes in the same vol- 
ume, and always upon the same shelves of our 
libraries, have led us insensibly into the habit 
of confounding the manners of the court with 
those of the city. Hence great prejudices 
have arisen against the purity of some of our 
most estimable writers, and against the refine- 


Ancient French Romances 


17 


ment of society in those ages in which they 
were admired. Hence, too, all the difficulties 
which later historians have encountered, when, 
before classifying their authorities, they have 
sought to examine anew the manners and cus- 
toms of an age. 

But the desire of proving that even in the 
twelfth century there was a refined and pol- 
ished class in society, would lead me too far 
from my original design, and I will therefore 
resist the temptation. I would only ask those 
whom the love of a native land they do know 
has too strongly prejudiced against that other 
and earlier native land they do not know, to 
cast their eyes for a moment upon some no- 
ble monument of Gothic architecture ; for ex- 
ample, upon the cathedral of Rheims. When 
they have contemplated this Pantheon of our 
glory,” as a writer of our own day has appro- 
priately called it, let them ask themselves 
whether those ages which conceived the de- 
sign and completed the construction of that 
noble edifice, ignorant as they were of Homer, 
Cicero, and Quinctilian, must not have pos- 
sessed a native literature worthy, in some de- 
gree, of such a stupendous style of architec- 
ture } What ! Villehardouin, Joinville, Philip 


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Augustus, and Saint Louis ignorant of all 
other poetry but the burlesque proverbs of 
Marcon, the superstitious reveries of Gautier 
de Coinsy, and the indecent profanities of 
such writers as Rutebeuf and Jean de Conde! 
Were it true it would not be probable, and, in 
such a case, we must say that Gothic architec- 
ture is an effect without a cause, — prolem sine 
matre creatam. 

But it is not true. We possessed in former 
times great epic poems, which, for four centu- 
ries, constituted the principal study of our 
fathers. And during that period all Europe, 
— Germany, England, Spain, and Italy, — hav- 
ing nothing of the kind to boast of, either in 
their historic recollections or in their historic 
records, disputed with each other the second- 
ary glory of translating and imitating them. 

Even amid the darkness of the ninth and 
tenth centuries, the French still preserved 
the recollection of an epoch of great national 
glory. Under Charlemagne, they had spread 
their conquests from the Oder to the Ebro, 
from the Baltic to the Sicilian sea. Mussul- 
mans and Pagans, Saxons, Lombards, Bava- 
rians, and Batavians, — all had submitted to 
the yoke of France, all had trembled at the 


Ancient French Romances 


19 


power of Charles the Great. Emperor of the 
West, King of France and Germany, restorer 
of the arts and sciences, wise lawgiver, great 
converter of infidels, — how many titles to the 
recollection and gratitude of posterity ! Add 
to this, that long before his day the Franks 
were in the habit of treasuring up in their 
memory the exploits of their ancestors ; that 
Charlemagne himself, during his reign, caused 
all the heroic ballads, which celebrated the 
glory of the nation, to be collected together ; 
and, in fine, that the weakness of his succes- 
sors, the misfortunes of the times, and the in- 
vasions of the Normans must have increased 
the national respect and veneration for the 
illustrious dead, — and you will be forced to 
confess that, if no poetic monuments of the 
ninth century remained, we ought rather to 
conjecture that the}^ had been lost, than that 
they had never existed. 

As to the contemporaneous hikory of those 
times, it offers us, if I may so speak, only the 
outline of this imposing colossus. Read the 
Annals of the Abbey of Fulde and those of 
Metz, Paul the Deacon, the continuator of 
Fredegaire, and even Eginhart himself, and 
you will there find registered, in the rapid 


20 


Drift- Wood 


style of an itinerary, the multiplied conquests 
of the French. The Bavarians, the Lombards, 
the Gascons revolt ; — Charles goes forth to 
subdue the Bavarians, the Lombards, and the 
Gascons. Witikind rebels ten times, and ten 
times Charles passes the Rhine and routs the 
insurgent army ; and there the history ends. 
Nevertheless, the Emperor had his generals, 
his companions in glory, his rivals in genius ; 
but in all history we find^ not a whisper of 
their services, — hardly are their names men- 
tioned. It has been left to the popular ballads, 
barren as they are of all historic authority, to 
transmit to posterity the proofs of their ancient 
renown. 

But although these ancient Chansons de 
Geste, or historic ballads, fill up the chasms of 
true history, and clothe with flesh the meagre 
skeleton of old contemporaneous chroniclers, 
yet you must not therefore conclude that I 
am prepared to maintain the truth of their 
narratives. Far from it. Truth does not reign 
supreme on earth ; and these romances, after 
all, are only the expression of public opinion, 
separated by an interval of many generations 
from that whose memory they transmit to us. 
But to supply the want of historians, each 


Ancient French Romances 


21 


great epoch in national history inspires the 
song of bards ; and when the learned and the 
wise neglect to prepare the history of events 
which they themselves have witnessed, the 
people prepare their national songs ; their so- 
norous voice, prompted by childish credulity 
and a free and unlimited admiration, echoes 
alone through succeeding ages, and kindles 
the imagination, the feelings, the enthusiasm 
of the children,, by proclaiming the glory of 
the fathers. Thus Homer sang two centuries 
after the Trojan war ; and thus arose, two or 
three centuries after the death of Charle- 
magne, all those great poems called the Ro- 
mances of the Twelve Peers.'’ 

And now let us suppose for a moment, that, 
after the lapse of two centuries, the mirror of 
history should reflect nothing of the reign of 
Napoleon, but the majestic flgure of the con- 
queror himself, and a chronological list of his 
victories and defeats. Then the exploits of 
his marshals and the deeds of his high digni- 
taries would excite the suspicion and the scep- 
ticism of the historian ; but then, too, would 
songs and popular ballads proclaim loudly, not 
the final treason of Murat, but his chivalrous 
gallantry ; they would repeat the pretended 


22 


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death of Cambronne, and the odious crimes 
with which the people so blindly charge M. 
de Raguse. Nor would a Roland and a 
Ganelon suffice ; around the new Charle- 
magne would be grouped another warlike 
Almoner, another prudent Duke Naimes. 
Such, were history silent, would be outlines 
of the poetic tale ; and our children would 
easily supply the coloring. 

To return to the Romances of the Twelve 
Peers. They recommend themselves equally 
to the admiration of the poet, and to the at- 
tention of the antiquary. Whilst the former 
will be astonished at the unity of the plots, 
the connection of the episodes, the interest of 
the stories, and the originality of the descrip- 
tions they contain, the latter will find new 
light thrown by them upon the ancient topog- 
raphy of France, upon the date of many ven- 
erable structures, and upon the history of an 
infinite number of cities, fiefs, chateaux, and 
seigniories. When these singular productions 
shall appear in the broad daylight of the press, 
then shall we see France enveloped in a bright 
poetic glory, new and unexpected. And, on 
the other hand, what an ample field will then 
be laid open for new doubts concerning om 


Ancient French Romances 23 

ancient jurisprudence, our ancient political 
constitution, and the nature, of the feudal sys- 
tem, so complicated in modern theory, but so 
natural in its origin and so simple in its form ! 
In the writings of our old romancers, the feu- 
dal system is embodied ; it moves, acts, speaks, 
battles ; now with the monarch at its head, it 
is present at the tilts and tournaments, and 
now it discusses the affairs of state ; now it 
suffers penalties, and now cries aloud for ven- 
geance. I assert, then, without fear of contra- 
diction, that, in order to become thoroughly 
acquainted with the history of the Middle 
Ages, — I do not mean the bare history of 
facts, but of the manners and customs which 
render those facts probable, — we must study 
it in the pages of old romance ; and this is 
the reason why the history of France is yet 
unwritten. 

Hitherto the fate of these great works has 
been a singular one. I have already remarked, 
that for the space of four hundred years, that 
is from the eleventh to the fifteenth century, 
they constituted almost the only literature of 
our ancestors. Immediately afterward foreign 
nations took possession of them ; first the Ger- 
mans, and next the Italians ; and it would 


24 


Drift - Wood 


seem, that, in thus relinquishing them to our 
neighbors, we have had some scruples as to 
the propriety of retaining even so much as the 
memory of them. Thus by slow degrees they 
have quite disappeared from our literature. 
The renown, however, of the enchanting fic- 
tions of Pulci and Ariosto gave birth to a few 
lifeless and paltry imitations ; only one point 
was forgotten, and that was to have recourse 
to the old Gallic originals. But, alas ! what 
was ancient France, her history, her manners, 
and her literature, to a class of writers who 
only dreamed of reviving once more the ages 
of Rome and Athens, and who, in their strange 
hallucination, hoped to persuade the people to 
suppress all rhyme in their songs, and to sup- 
ply its place by dactyls and anapests. 

This exclusive love of classic antiquity ac- 
quired new force during the whole of the sev- 
enteenth century : so that no one thought of 
contradicting Boileau, when he so carelessly 
called Villon 

“ The first who, in those rude, unpolished times. 

Cleared the dark mysteiy of our ancient rhymes/’ 

In the eighteenth century a kind of conser- 
vative instinct seemed to bring our men of 
letters back to the productions of the Middle 


Ancient French Romances 


25 


Ages ; but by their anxiety to remove all philo- 
logical difficulties from the old romances, they 
have retarded the time when these poems shall 
be as universally read among us, as the Ro- 
manceros are in Spain, and Dante and Boccac- 
cio in Italy. The imitations of Tressan and 
Caylus had their day ; but as these produc- 
tions were tricked out to suit the fashion of 
the age, they disappeared with the fashion 
which gave them birth. 

But the moment seems at length to have 
arrived when these ancient poems shall be 
raised from the dead. A desire to know more 
of the earliest monuments of modern literature 
is at length manifesting itself among us ; and 
before the expiration of ten years, it is probable 
that the most important of these works will 
have emerged, so to speak, into the perpetual 
light of the press. 

One word concerning the metre of these po- 
ems. They were written to be sung ; and this 
is one point of resemblance observable between 
the old Greek rhapsodies and the heroic ballads 
of France. Doubtless the music of these poems 
was solemn and monotonous, like that of our 
devotional chants, or those village songs, whose 
final notes mark the recommencement of the 


26 


Drift- Wood 


tune. The ancient ballad of Count Orri is a 
piece of this kind ; and so also is the burlesque 
description of the death of Malbrouk, if you 
suppress the refrain.* This kind of music 
strikes the ear agreeably, though its cadence 
is monotonous ; in proof of which I appeal to 
all our recollections of childhood. 

In these old romances, as in the song to 
which I have just alluded, the verse is mono- 
rhythmic, and the metre either pentameter or 
Alexandrine. As these poems were written to 
be sung, it is evident that the pause or rest 
would naturally come after the fourth syllable 
in pentameter lines, and after the sixth in Al- 
exandrines.f Nor is this all. This necessary 
rest in the middle of the line gave the poet an 

* Though this song is certainly well enough known, yet it 
may be necessary to quote a few lines in proof of my asser- 
tion. It will be seen that the measure is Alexandrine^ and 
the verse monorhythmic, 

“ Madame a sa tour monte, — si haut qu’el peut monter, 

Elle aper9oit son page — de noir tout habille. 

‘ Beau page, mon beau page, — quel’ nouvelle a ortes ? ’ 

‘ La nouvell’ que j’aporte, — vos beaux yeux vont pleurer ; 

Monsieur Malbrough est mort, — est mort et enterre,’ ” etc. 

t To this rest, which was absolutely essential to the mu- 
‘^ical accompaniment, we can trace back the use of the hemi- 
stich, which is still preserved by the French, though all other 
modern nations have abandoned it. 


Ancient French Romances 


27 


opportunity of introducing at the close of the 
hemistich an unaccented syllable, as at the 
end of the feminine rhymes of the present 
day. 

After an attentive examination of our an- 
cient literature, it is impossible to doubt for a 
moment, that the old monorhythmic romances 
were set to music, and accompanied by a viol, 
harp, or guitar ; and yet this seems hitherto to 
have escaped observation. In the olden time 
no one was esteemed a good minstrel, whose 
memory was not stored with a great number 
of historic ballads, like those of Roncesvalles, 
Garin de Loherain, and Gerars de Roussillon. 
It is not to be supposed that any one of these 
poems was ever recited entire ; but as the 
greater part of them contained various de- 
scriptions of battles, hunting adventures, and 
marriages, — scenes of the court, the council, 
and the castle, — the audience chose those stan- 
zas and episodes which best suited their taste. 
And this is the reason why each stanza con- 
tains in itself a distinct and complete narra- 
tive, and also why the closing lines of each 
stanza are in substance repeated at the com- 
mencement of that which immediately suc- 
ceeds. 


28 


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In the poem of Gerars de Nevers I find the 
following curious passage. Gerars, betrayed 
by his mistress and stripped of his earldom of 
Nevers by the Duke of Metz, determines to 
revisit his ancient domains. To avoid detec- 
tion and arrest, he is obliged to assume the 
guise of a minstrel. 

“ Then Gerars donned a garment old, 

And round his neck a viol hung, 

P'or cunningly he played and sung 

Steed he had none ; so he was fain 
To trudge on foot o’er hill and plain, 

Till Nevers’ gate he stood before. 

There merry burghers full a score. 

Staring, exclaimed in pleasant mood : 

‘ This minstrel cometh for little good ; 

I ween, if he singeth all day long. 

No one will listen to his song.’ ” 

In spite of these unfavorable prognostics, 
Gerars presents himself before the castle ol 
the Duke of Metz. 

“ Whilst at the door he thus did wait, 

A knight came through the courtyard gate. 

Who bade the minstrel enter straight. 

And led him to the crowded hall. 

That he might play before them all. 

The minstrel then full soon began, 

In gesture like an aged man. 

But with clear voice and music gay, 

The song of Guillaume au Cornez, 


Ancient French Romances 29 

Great was the court in the hall of Loon, 

The tables were full of fowl and venison, 

On flesh and fish they feasted every one ; 

But Guillaume of these viands tasted none. 

Brown crusts ate he, and water drank alone. 

When had feasted every noble baron, 

The cloths were removed by squire and scullion. 

Count Guillaume then with the king did thus reason : 

‘ What thinketh now, * quoth he, ‘ the gallant Charlon?* 
Will he aid me against the prowess of Mahon ? ’ 

Quoth Loeis, ‘ We will take counsel thereon. 
To-morrow in the morning shalt thou conne. 

If aught by us in this matter can be done. ’ 

Guillaume heard this, — black was he as carbon, 

He louted low, and seized a baton. 

And said to the king, ‘ Of your fief will I none, 

I will not keep so much as a spur’s iron ; 

Your friend and vassal I cease to be anon ; 

But come you shall, whether you will or non.’ 

Thus full four verses sang the knight. 

For their great solace and delight.” 

Observe the expression ‘‘full four verses,” 
which very evidently means four stanzas or 
couplets. 

Thus, then, we may consider the fact as well 
established, that the old romances were sung ; 
and that hence there was a good reason for di- 
viding them into monorhyme stanzas. 

And thus, too, we discover the reason why 


Charlemagne. 


30 


Drift- Wood 


these romances were called chansons^ or songs, 
and why they generally commenced with some 
such expressions as the following : — 

“ Good song, my lords, will it please you to hear ? . . 

“ Listen, lordlings, to a merry song . . 

“ Historic song, and of marvellous renown ...” 

We shall no longer look for the famous 
Chanson de Roland or de Roncevaux in some 
forgotten page of our ancient manuscripts ; 
nor shall we longer insist upon its having the 
brevity, the form, and even the accustomed 
burden of the modern ballad. We shall now 
be content with a reference to the manu- 
scripts entitled Li Romans, or La Chansons de 
Roncevals, which can be easily found in the 
Royal Library; — and after having read them, 
we shall no longer believe that this precious 
monument of our national traditions and liter- 
ature has forever perished. 

It is because we have not already done this, 
that we have always interpreted so incorrectly 
the passage in the romance of the Brut^ where 


* The original of this romance was an ancient chronicle 
entitled Bruty Brenhined, or Brutus of Brittany, written in the 
old Armoric dialect, and first brought into England at the 
commencement of the twelfth century by Walter or Gualter, 
Archdeacon of Oxford. It was given by him to Geoffrey of 


Ancient French Romances 


31 

the author, after enumerating the army of Wil- 
liam the Conqueror, adds : — 

“ Taillefer, who sung full well, I wot, 

Mounted on steed that was swift of foot, 

Went forth before the armed train 
Singing of Roland and Charlemain, 

Of Oliver and the brave vassals. 

Who died at the pass of Roncesvals. 

Monmouth, a Benedictine monk, who translated it into Latin 
prose. Afterwards, by the order of Henry II. of England, it 
was translated into French verse by Robert Wace, under the 
title of Le Brut d'' Engleterre, From this romance originated 
the Romances of King Arthur and the Round Table. The 
following quaint notice of this old chronicle is from the pen of 
an English writer of the sixteenth century. 

“Among our owne ancient chronicles, John of Wetham- 
sted. Abbot of S. Alban, holdeth the whole narration of Brute 
to be rather poeticall, than historical!, which me thinkes, is 

agreable to reason The first that ever broached it 

was Geffry of Motimoth aboute foure hundred yeares agoe, 
during the raigne of Henry the Second, who, publishing the 
Brittish story in Latine, pretended to have taken it out of 
ancient monuments written in the Brittish tongue : but this 
booke, as soone as it peeped forth into the light, was sharply 
censured both by Giraldus Cambrensis, and William of New- 
berry who lived at the same time, the former tearming it no 
better than Fabulosam historiam^ a fabulous history, and the 
latter, Ridicula figmenta^ ridiculous fictions, and it now stands 
branded with a blacke coie among the bookes prohibited by 
the Church of Rome.” — An Apologie of the Power and 
Providence of God in the Government of the Worlds p. 8. 
Vr. 


32 


Drift- Wood 


We formerly thought, with the Due de 
la Valliere, that some short ballad was here 
spoken of ; and M. de Chateaubriand was the 
first to suspect the truth, when he said, This 
ballad must still exist somewhere in the ro- 
mance of Oliver^ which was formerly preserved 
in the Royal Library.” The whole truth is 
that the Chajison de Roncevaiix exists nowhere 
but in the Chanson de Roncevaux. 

Hitherto, by way of excuse for not reading 
these old romances, it has been fashionable to 
load them with all kinds of censure. It may 
not be amiss to examine some of the charges 
brought against them. 

It has been said that they contain nothing 
but ridiculous and incredible adventures ; that 
these adventures are all founded upon a pre- 
tended journey of Charlemagne to Jerusalem ; 
and that they are a copy or a paraphrase of 
that absurd and insipid history of Charle^ 
magne attributed to the Archbishop Turpin. 
Consequently their date is fixed no earlier 
than the close of the twelfth or the com- 
mencement of the thirteenth century. But 
these opinions will not bear a very rigid scru- 
tiny. 

Those who urge the improbability of the 


Ancient French Romances 


33 


adventures contained in these writings, con- 
found together two classes of works, which 
have no kind of connection, — that is to say, 
the old traditions of Brittany, and the ancient 
heroic ballads of France. The former, indeed, 
founded upon the marvels of the Saint Graaly^ 
contain nothing but strange and miraculous 
adventures; but the Romances of the Twelve 
Peers contain a continued narrative, the more 
probable in its detail, inasmuch as these ro- 
mances belong to a period of greater antiqui- 
ty. The impossible forms no part of their 
plan, and Lucan is not more sparing of the 
marvellous than the first poets who sang the 
praises of Roland and Guillaume au Cornez, 
Nay, if any one should compare the details of 
the lives of our ancient kings, as they are de- 
scribed in the Chronicle of Saint-Denis, and 
in our oldest romances, he would soon be per- 

* The Saint Graal was the dish in which Joseph of 
Arimathea is said to have caught the blood which flowed 
from the Saviour’s wounds, when he embalmed the body. 
According to the traditions of old romance, he afterwards 
carried it to Great Britain, where he made use of it in con- 
verting the inhabitants to Christianity, — or, as it is expressed 
in the Romance of Tristan, '‘"‘pour la terre susdite peupler 
de bonne gentC* It figures in all the romances of the Round 
Table. Tr. 


34 


Drift- Wood 


suaded that the latter have incontestably the 
advantage in point of probability. 

The second charge is equally ill-founded. 
I am well aware, that the antiquarians of the 
last century discovered a legend describing the 
journey of Charlemagne to the Holy Land ; I 
am equally well aware, that in addition to this 
there exists a very ancient romance, whose 
subject is the conquest of a part of the Gre- 
cian empire by Charlemagne, and his pilgrim- 
age to Jerusalem. But it is very unfair to 
conclude from this, that all the romances of 
the Twelve Peers have the same chimerical 
foundation ; for the only one which treats of 
the war in the East was first discovered by 
the Abbe de la Rue, not in France, but in the 
British Museum. With regard to the other 
monorhythmic romances, far from being found- 
ed on the same event, the greater part of them 
do not even belong to the age of Charlemagne. 
Thus, Gerars de Roussillon, of which nothing 
how remains but an imitation of a later date, 
records the wars of Charles Martel ; Garin le 
Loherain, Girbert, and Berte aus Grans Pies 
embrace the reign of P6pin-le-Bref ; Raoul de 
Cambray, Guillaume au Cornez, Gerars de Ne< 
vers, transport us to the days of Louis-le-De- 


Ancient French Romances 


35 


bonnaire ; and others refer back to the age of 
Charles-le-Chauve. Of the poems which em- 
brace the age of Charlemagne, the most an- 
cient and authentic are the following : Agolanty 
or the expulsion of the Saracens from Italy ; 
— Jean de La^ison, or the Lombard war ; — 
Guiteclin de Sassoigne, or the wars of Saxony 
against Witikind ; — Les Quatre Fils Aymon 
and Girard de Vianney or the wars of Au- 
vergne and Dauphiny ; and Ogier le Da^iois 
and RoncevauXy or the expedition to Spain. 
In all these there is not one word about Jeru- 
salem, — not even so much as an allusion to 
that chimerical pilgrimage. We must not, 
then, condemn these romances, because they 
are all founded on the pretended journey of 
Charlemagne to Jerusalem.'’ 

I now come to the last charge. And are 
the Romances of the Twelve Peers” a para- 
phrase of the chronicle of Turpin, and conse- 
quently of a later date than this chronicle } 

All your friends are well aware that you 
have been long engaged in preparing a val- 
uable edition of the work of the Archbishop 
of Rheirns. You have consulted the various 
manuscripts, and the numerous translations of 
this work ; you have compared the most cor- 


36 


Drift- Wood 


rect texts and the most ancient readings. It 
is then for you to decide, whether our ancient 
poems, being only an imitation of this chroni- 
cle, are to be dated no farther back than the 
thirteenth, or, at farthest, than the twelfth cen- 
tury. And if I venture to offer you, in antici- 
pation of your judgment, my own imperfect 
views upon this subject, I am urged to this 
step by the conviction, that my researches, 
though far less enlightened than your own, 
will notwithstanding coincide with them. 

The author of this chronicle, whoever he 
may be, is very far from having made good 
the title of his work , — De Vitd et Gestis Caroli 
Magni. With the exception of a few sen- 
tences which are bestowed upon the first ex- 
ploits and upon the death of Charlemagne, 
the whole work is taken up in describing the 
crusade against the Saracens of Spain, and 
the defeat of the French rear-guard near Ron- 
cesvalles. According to the chronicler, the 
true motive of this expedition was a dream, 
in which Saint James commanded the Em- 
peror to go and rescue his precious relics from 
the hands of the Saracens. In return for this, 
the Saint promised him victory on earth and 
paradise in heaven. The first care of Charle- 


Ancient French Romances 37 

magne was, therefore, to build churches to 
Saint James, and to honor his relics. Not- 
withstanding all this, his rear-guard, as every- 
body knows, was cut to pieces ; but this, 
according to the same chronicler, was the 
fault of the French themselves, who were en- 
ticed from their duty by the allurements of 
the Moorish maidens. At all events, he de- 
clares that Charlemagne would have been 
damned after death, had it not been for the 
great number of churches which he built or 
endowed. 

This brief analysis of the famous chronicle 
affords us a glimpse of its design. The au- 
thor was, without doubt, a monk ; and Geof- 
frey, Prior of Saint-Andre-de-Vienne, who first 
brought it from Spain, was living in the year 
1092. Until that time, the very existence of 
that legend was unknown in France ; and 
there can be little doubt, that even the pro- 
tection of the monk of Dauphiny would not 
have rescued it from the obscurity into which 
all the pious frauds of the same kind have so 
justly fallen, had it not been for the infallible 
recommendation, which Pope Calixtus II., for- 
merly Archbishop of Vienne, let fall upon it 
from the height of his pontifical throne. But 


38 


Drift- Wood 


after all, the Holy Father never declared that 
this chronicle gave birth to the old French ro- 
mances ; and we may therefore, with all due 
respect to his decision, maintain that the great- 
er part of these romances are anterior in date 
to the chronicle. 

Indeed, who does not perceive, that, if free 
scope had been given to the pious chronicler, 
— if he had not been restrained by the neces- 
sity of adapting his work to the exigency of 
traditions generally adopted, — he would have 
omitted the defeat at Roncesvalles, which so 
unfortunately deranges the promises made to 
Charlemagne by Monseignettr Saint Jacques ? 

But there are other proofs even more incon- 
testable than these. In the epistle which the 
Prior of Vienne wrote to the clergy of Limoges 
when he sent them the chronicle of Turpin, he 
observes that he had been the more anxious to 
procure the work from Spain, because that, pre- 
vious to that time, the expedition of Charle- 
magne was known in France by the songs of 
the Troubadours only. It would seem, then, 
that these Troubadours, or Jongleurs, did not 
wait for the inspiration of the Spanish legend 
in order to enable them to celebrate the ex- 
ploits of Roland, and to sing the sad but glen 
rious day of Roncesvalles. 


Ancient French Romances 


39 


In the course of this miserable monkish 
chronicle, the fictitious Turpin happens to 
name the principal leaders of the army of 
Charlemagne. In doing this he confounds, 
with the most singular ignorance, the poetic 
heroes of different generations ; as, for exam- 
ple, Garin le Loherain and Oliver, the former 
of whom lived at the commencement of the 
reign of Pepin, and the latter in the last years 
of the reign of Charlemagne. On the same 
occasion he speaks of the valiant Ogier le Da- 
nois, who, says he, did such marvels that his 
praise is sung in ballads even down to the 
present day.” The Chansons of Roland and of 
Ogier, which are still preserved, are not, then, 
mere imitations of the legend of Turpin. 

I feel that all further proof would be super- 
fluous. Still, I cannot refrain from mention- 
ing the fact, that this Turpin, whom the forger 
of these writings has transformed into an his- 
torian, far from being cited in the Chanson de 
Roland as the guarantee of the circumstances 
accompanying the death of this Paladin, ex- 
pires covered with wounds some time before 
the death of Roland. But in the chronicle, 
which was made for and by the monks, and 
with the simple design of exciting the zeal of 


40 


Drift’ Wood 


the pilgrims to the shrine of Saint James, Tur- 
pin appears only in order to confess the dying, 
and afterwards to carry to Charlemagne the 
story of the disastrous defeat. Surely, if the 
poets had followed this chronicle, and had 
taken it, as has been pretended, for the foun- 
dation of their poems, they would have rep- 
resented the good Archbishop in the same 
manner in which he has represented himself. 
And if his testimony had been of any impor- 
tance in their opinion, as it was in that of all 
the annalists of the twelfth and thirteenth cen- 
turies, they surely would not have begun by 
entirely overthrowing the authority of this tes- 
timony. 

The following is the description given in the 
famous Chanson de Roland of the death of Tur- 
pin. I have praised these ancient poems so 
highly, that I might be accused of prejudice in 
their favor, if I brought forward no quotations 
to sustain my opinion. 

“ The Archbishop, whom God loved in high degree, 
Beheld his wounds all bleeding fresh and free ; 

And then his cheek more ghastly grew 4nd wan, 

And a faint shudder through hi*s members ran. 

Upon the battle-field his knee was bent ; 

Brave Roland saw, and to his succor went. 

Straightway his helmet from his brow unlaced, 

And tore the shining hauberk from his breast. 


Ancient French Romances 4i 


Then raising in his arms the man of God, 

Gently he laid him on the verdant sod. 

‘ Rest, Sire,’ he cried, — ‘for rest thy suffering needs.' 

The priest replied, ‘ Think but of Warlike deeds ! 

The field is ours ; well may we boast this strife ! 

But death steals on, — there is no hope of life ; 

In paradise, where Almoners live again. 

There are our couches spread, there shall we rest from pain.’ 

Sore Roland grieved ; nor marvel I, alas ! 

That thrice he swooned upon the thick green grass. 

When he revived, with a loud voice cried he, 

‘ O Heavenly Father ! Holy Saint Marie ! 

Why lingers death to lay me in my grave ! 

Beloved France ! how have the good and brave 
Been torn from thee, and left thee weak and poor ! ’ 

Then thoughts of Aude, his lady-love, came o’er 
His spirit, and he whispered soft and slow, 

‘ My gentle friend ! — what parting full of woe ! 

Never so true a liegeman shalt thou see ; — 

Whate’er my fate, Christ’s benison on thee ! 

Christ, who did save from realms of woe beneath. 

The Hebrew Prophets from the second death.’ 

Then to the Paladins, whom well he knew. 

He went, and one by one unaided drew 
To Turpin’s side, well skilled in ghostly lore ; — 

No heart had he to smile, — but, weeping sore. 

He blessed them in God’s name, with faith that he 
Would soon vouchsafe to them a glad eternity. 

The Archbishop, then, on whom God’s benison rest. 
Exhausted, bowed his head upon his breast ; — 

His mouth was full of dust and clotted gore. 

And many a wound his swollen visage bore. 


42 


Drift- Wood 


Slow beats his heart, — his panting bosom heaves, — 
Death comes apace, — no hope of cure relieves. 

Towards heaven he raised his dying hands, and prayed 
That God, who for our sins was mortal made. 

Born of the Virgin, — scorned and crucified, — 

In paradise would place him by his side. 

“ Then Turpin died in service of Charlon, 

In battle great and eke great orison ; — 

’Gainst Pagan host alway strong champion ; — 

God grant to him his holy benison. ” * 

One question more remains to be touched 
upon. To what century do these historic 
songs, or Romances of the Twelve Peers, be- 
long ^ Some have been so sceptical in regard 
to their antiquity as to fix their date as late as 
the thirteenth century ; — let us not fall into 
the opposite extreme, by referring them back 
to so early a period as that in which occurred 
the events they celebrate. But this discussion 
would demand a more profound erudition, and 
a more experienced judgment, than I can 
bring to the task ; — and above all a more 
extended view of the whole ground of contro- 

* The stanzas of this extract, like those of the extract from 
Gerard de Nevers^ are monorhythmic. This peculiarity it was 
not thought necessary to preserve in the translation, as the 
preceding extract will serve as an example of that kind of 
verse. Tr. 


Ancient French Romances 43 

versy than my present limits allow. Nor shall 
I ever undertake this task, unless more skil- 
ful critics should be backward in maintaining 
the good cause ; a supposition which is by no 
means probable, for on all sides a taste, nay a 
passion, for these earliest monuments of mod- 
ern literature is springing up. Even before a 
professorship has been endowed in the College 
de France, for the purpose of thoroughly investi- 
gating the early stages of the French language, 
the public welcomes with avidity whatever is 
thus dug up from the fruitful soil of our an- 
cient country. The mine is hardly open ; — 
and yet every day we hear of the publication 
of some old manuscript before unknown. Im- 
mediately subsequent to the publication of Le 
Ro 7 nan de Renard, appeared under your own 
auspices our earliest comic opera, Le Jeu de 
Rohm et Marion, and our earliest drama, Le Jen 
d'Adam le Bossu d'Arras. M. de Roquefort 
has presented, as his offering, the poems of 
Marie de France ; and M. Crapelet, the agree- 
able romance of Le Chdtelain de Coney. M. F. 
Michel, not satisfied with having published the 
romance of Le Comte de Poitiers, is about brijig- 
ing forward, with the assistance of an able Ori- 
e.rvtalist, a poem entitled Mahomet, which will 


44 


Drift- Wood 


show us in what light the religion and the per- 
son of the Arab lawgiver were regarded in the 
East during the thirteenth century. M. Bour- 
dillon, who has long felt all the historic and 
literary importance of the Chanson de Ronce- 
vanx, is now occupied in preparing an edition 
for the press ; and M. Robert, already favora- 
bly known by his work upon La Fontaine, will 
soon publish an edition of the fine old romance 
of Partenopex de Blois, Meanwhile the cele- 
brated M. Raynouard is about completing his 
Glossaire des Langnes Vtilgaires ; and the Abbe 
de la Rue is superintending the publication of 
a large work on les Bardes, les Jongleurs^ et les 
Trouvtres. Thus the knowledge of our ancient 
literature develops itself more and more daily ; 
and thus will arise, if indeed it has not already 
arisen, a sober and enlightened judgment con- 
cerning the productions of the human mind, 
during that long period, bounded on one side 
by antiquity and on the other by the sixteenth 
century, the epoch of the revival of the arts 
and sciences. 

The author of the romance of Berte ans 
Gi^ts Pi^s flourished about the close of the 
thirteenth century. His name was Adans or 
Adenh, according to the general custom of 


Ancient French Romances 


45 


designating an individual indifferently by his 
patronymic name or by its diminutive. The 
greater part of the manuscripts give him the 
surname of J?oi] or King ; and M. Roquefort 
thinks that it was bestowed upon him because 
one of his poems bore off the palm at a j>uj/ 
(T amour, or Court of Love whilst the learned 
authors of the Histoire Litteraire de la France 
suppose that Adenes was indebted for this title 
to the justice of his contemporaries and to the 
superiority of his poetic talent. I shall hazard 
an opinion of my own, which does not conform 
to either of these. We are acquainted with 
several Trouveres, whose works obtained prizes 
in the Puys of Valenciennes or Cambray; — 
they all took the surname of couronne, and not 
that of roi. 

But in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries 
there was a King of the Minstrels {Roi des 
Alenestrels). This pacific sovereign had the 

* The puys d' amour were assemblies in which questions of 
love and gallantry were discussed in poetry. The name of 
'ptiy comes from the low Latin podium, “ balcony ” or “ stage,’' 
as the poets on these occasions recited their verses from an 
elevated place. For an account of these Puys or Cours 

Amour, see Roquefort, De la Poesie Frangoise, p. 93. — 
Raynouard, Choix de Poesies des Troubadours, Tom. II. p. 79 
• et seq. Tr. 


46 


Drift- Wood 


direction of the Jongleurs or Troubadours of 
the court, and I am inclined to think that 
his duties bore no inconsiderable resemblance 
to those of a modern leader of an orchestra. 
To him people addressed themselves, when 
they wanted a good singer, a good lute-player, 
or a good harper ; and the King of the Min- 
strels, as the most skilful of all, directed and 
animated the concert by voice and gesture. 
Such were probably the prerogatives and func- 
tions of le Roi A dents. 

However this may be, — and although no 
one can doubt, on running over the names of 
his numerous and illustrious protectors, that 
Adenes enjoyed a high reputation as Trouvere 
and minstrel, — yet I do not find that any con- 
temporary writer makes mention of him. It is 
true, that in one of the copies of the fables of 
Marie de France, this poetess designates le Roi 
A dans as the author of the first English trans- 
lation of the fables of Esop : — 

‘ ‘ Esop call we this book ; 

King Adans did highly rate it, 

And into English did translate it.” 

But this copy deceived the learned author of 
the catalogue of the La Valliere manuscripts. 
All other copies of Marie de France read Li 


Ancient French Ro^nances 


47 


rois Henrys^ instead of Li rois A dans. At all 
events, as many of the manuscripts of Marie de 
France belong to the commencement of the 
thirteenth century, it is evident that they can 
make no mention of the works of Adenes, who 
did not flourish till near its close. 

It is, then, to the writings of Adenes, and 
particularly to his romance of Cleomades^ that 
we must look for information respecting the 
time in which he flourished, and for some cir- 
cumstances of his life. 

Adenes was born in the duchy of Brabant 
about 1240. He doubtless exhibited, at an 
early age, a remarkable talent for poetry ; for 
Henry HI., then Duke of Brabant, the warm 
friend of poets and yet a poet himself, had him 
educated with care, and afterward chose him 
for his minstrel. It is very possible that the 
pretty songs of Henry HI., which are still pre- 
served in the Royal Library, were submitted 
to the correction of the young Adenes, before 
they were sung in public. Nearly all the 
princes of the thirteenth century give proofs 
of great talent, and sometimes of true poetic 
genius. But perhaps their highest, their most 
indisputable merit was mainly owing to the 
choice of their minstrels. Thus, Blondel was 


48 


Drift- Wood 


distinguished by the patronage of Richard 
Coeur-de-Lion, and Gaces Brules by that of 
the king of Navarre ; Charles d’ Anjou, king of 
Naples, was accompanied by the Bossu d’Ar- 
ras, and we have seen that Adenes had mer- 
ited the good graces of the Duke of Brabant. 

“ Minstrel was I to the good Duke Henry ; 

He it was that brought me up and nourished me, 

And made me learn the art of minstrelsy. ” 

Henry died in 1260, regretted by his sub- 
jects, and above all by the poets, whose labors 
he liberally rewarded. Adenes, who, after the 
death of his benefactor, took every opportunity 
of praising his virtues, soon gained the affec- 
tion of the Duke’s children. Jean and Guyon 
preserved the poet from the ills of penury, 
and when Marie de Brabant became queen 
of France, she took him with her to Paris. 
There, in his double capacity of poet and cour- 
tier, he was honored with the most marked 
distinction. In those days, poets were per- 
mitted to eulogize the great, and to celebrate 
their numerous virtues. In doing this Adenes 
had no peer ; but whilst he rendered due hom- 
age to those whom fortune surrounded with 
all the splendor of power, he listened also to 
the natural promptings of his heart, and both 


Ancient French Romances 


49 


respected and cherished all self-acquired re- 
nown. He somewhere says in Buevon de Co- 
marchis : 

“ If it please God and his saints, through all my earthly days, 
Of good men and of valiant, I -will gladly speak in praise ; 
What good I hear of them, I will record it in my lays. 

If aught I hear that ’s ill, I will hold my peace always. ” 

The precise date of the death of Adenes is 
unknown. The last poem to which he has 
prefixed his name is Cleomadh, whose story 
transports us back to the reign of Diocletian. 
This is the longest of the author’s poems, and 
contains no less than nineteen thousand octo- 
syllabic lines. The principal narrative is of- 
ten interrupted by agreeable episodes, such as 
the history of the miraculous deeds of the 
poet Virgil, the greatest magician of Rome!' 
Among other marvels, which unfortunately 
time hath put into his wallet as ‘^alms for 
oblivion,” Adenes mentions the baths of Poz- 
zuoli. On each of these Virgil had inscribed 
the name of that disease which was instantly 
cured by the virtue of its waters. 

“ But the Physicians every one. 

Who much ill and much good have done, 

All of these writings did decry ; — 

For nothing could they gain thereby. 


50 


Drift-Wood 


And if those baths existed now, 

They ’d like them little enough, I trow.” 

A great number of copies of CUomadh are 
still extant, — some of them under the title of 
Cheval de Fust. This cheval de fust, or wooden 
horse, takes a very active part in the romance. 
He traversed the air, you know, with incon- 
ceivable rapidity, and was guided in his course 
by turning a peg, which is sufficient to prove 
that this famous courser is the type of the 
horse on which Pierre de Provence carried 
away the fair Maguelonne, and which, at a 
later period, under the name of Clavileno, bore 
the divine Sancho so high in air as to make 
him confound the earth with a grain of mus- 
tard-seed, and its inhabitants with filberts. 

Cldomadh was written at the joint request 
of Marie de Brabant and Blanche de France, 
who was married in 1269 to the Infante of 
Castile. The names of these two princesses 
determine very nearly the date of its composi- 
tion. Marie de Brabant was married in 1274 
to Philippe-le-Hardi ; and Blanche, on the 
death of her husband, returned to France in 
1275. Cleomadh must, therefore, have been 
written between 1275 and 1283, the year in 
which Philippe-le-Hardi died. 


Ancient French Romances Si 

I have one word more to say of this ro- 
mance. It thus commences : — 

“ He who did write Ogier the Dane, 

And She of the wood, yclept Bertaine, 

And Buevon of Comar chis make, 

Another book doth undertake. 

These three romances are still preserved in 
the Royal Library, all of them complete, ex- 
cept Buevon de Comarchis, of which the first 
part only remains. Buevon de Comavchis is a 
kind of appendage to the old romances which 
immortalize the family of Guillaume au Cor- 
nh; in the same manner that the Enfances 
Ogter are the sequel of the romances of Ogier. 
It has been often supposed, that Aden^s was 
the author of all the poems of Guillaume au 
Comes, and also of Ogier le Danois ; but this 
is an error ; for the origin of the greater part 
of these romances can be traced back to the 
very cradle of French poetry, — to a period 
far beyond the thirteenth century. 

Adenes, on the contrary, is one of the last 
poets, who sang, in monorhythmic verse, the 
traditions of our fabulous and heroic ages. 
His versification is pure and correct ; but it 
may be said, that the subject of his narratives 
is the less poetic in proportion as his style is 
the more so. 


52 


Drift- Wood 


But this letter is already a thousand times 
too long ; and I therefore close these desultory 
remarks upon Adenes and his works, leaving 
it to the romance of Berte aus Grans Pies to 
plead its own cause, and to justify the impor- 
tance which I attach to its publication. 


FRITHIOF’S SAGA 


1837 

T_T ERE beginneth the Legend of Frithiof 
J- the Valiant. He was the son of Thors- 
ten Vikingsson, a thane, and loved fair Inge- 
borg, the daughter of a king. His fame was 
great in the North, and his name in the song 
of bards. His marvellous deeds on land and 
sea are told in tradition ; and his history is 
written in the old Icelandic Saga that bears 
his name. This Saga is in prose, with occa- 
sionally a few stanzas of verse. Upon the 
events recorded in it the poem of Tegn^r is 
founded. 

Esaias Tegner, Bishop of Wexio and Knight 
of the Order of the North Star, was born in 
1782 and died in 1846. He stands first among 
the poets of Sweden ; a man of beautiful im- 
agination, — a poetic genius of high order. 
His countrymen are proud of him, and rejoice 
in his fame. If you speak of their literature, 
Tegner will be the first name upon their lips. 


54 


Drift- Wood 


They will tell you with enthusiasm of Frithiofs 
Saga ; and of Axel, and Svea, and the Children 
of the Lord’s Supper. The modern Scald has 
written his name in immortal runes : not on 
the bark of trees alone, in the ‘‘unspeakable 
rural solitudes” of pastoral song, but on the 
mountains of his fatherland, and the cliffs that 
overhang the sea, and on the tombs of ancient 
heroes, whose histories are epic poems. 

The Legend of Frithiof is an epic poem, 
composed of a series of ballads, each describ- 
ing some event in the hero’s life, and each writ- 
ten' in a different measure, according with the 
action described in the ballad. This is a nov- 
el idea ; and perhaps thereby the poem loses 
something in sober, epic dignity. But the loss 
is more than made up by the greater spirit of 
the narrative ; and it seems a laudable innova- 
tion thus to describe various scenes in various 
metres, and not to employ the same for a game 
of chess and a storm at sea. 

It may be urged against Tegn6r, with some 
show of truth, that he is too profuse and elab- 
orate in his use of figurative language, and 
that the same figures are sometimes repeated 
with little variation. But the reader must 
bear in mind that the work before him is writ' 


55 


Frithiof's Saga 

ten in the spirit of the Past ; in the spirit of 
that old poetry of the North, in which the 
same images and expressions are oft repeated, 
and the sword is called the Lightning s Broth- 
er ; a banner, the Hider of Heaven ; gold, the 
Daylight of Dwarfs ; and the grave, the Green 
Gate of Paradise. The old Scald smote the 
strings of his harp with as bold a hand as the 
Berserk smote his foe. When heroes fell in 
battle, he sang of them, in his Drapa, or Death- 
Song, that they had gone to drink beer with 
the gods. He lived in a credulous age ; in the 
dim twilight of the Past. He was 

“ The skylark in the dawn of years, 

The poet of the morn.’^ 

In the vast solitudes around him the heart 
of Nature beat against his own.” From the 
midnight gloom of groves the melancholy 
pines called aloud to the neighboring sea. 
To his ear these were not the voices of dead, 
but of living things. Demons rode the ocean 
like a weary steed, and the gigantic pines 
flapped their sounding wings to smite the 
spirit of the storm. 

With this same baptism has the soul of the 
modern Scald been baptized. He dwells in 
that land where the sound of the sea and the 


56 


Drift- Wood 


midnight storm are the voices of tradition, 
and the great forests beckon to him, and in 
mournful accents seem to say, “ Why hast thou 
tarried so long ? ” They have not spoken in 
vain. In this spirit the poem has been writ- 
ten, and in this spirit it must be read. We 
must visit, in imagination at least, that distant 
land, and converse with the Genius of the 
place. It points us to the great mounds, 
which are the tombs of kings. Their bones 
are within ; skeletons of warriors mounted on 
the skeletons of their steeds ; and Vikings sit- 
ting gaunt and grim on the plankless ribs of 
their pirate ships. There is a wooden statue 
in the Cathedral of Upsala. It is an image of 
the god Thor, who in Valhalla holds seven 
stars in his hand, and Charles’s Wain.* In 
the village of Gamla Upsala there is an an- 
cient church. It was once a temple, in which 
the gods of the old mythology were wor- 
shipped. In every mysterious sound that fills 
the air the peasant still hears the trampling of 
Odin’s steed, which many centuries ago took 

* Thor Gudh war hogsten aff them 
Han satt naken som ett Barn 
Siv stiemor i handen och Karlewagn. 

\ Old Szvedish Rhyme-Chronicle, 


57 


Frithiof^ s Saga 

fright at the sound of a church bell. The 
memory of Balder is still preserved in the 
flower that bears his name, and Freja’s spin- 
ning-wheel still glimmers in the stars of the 
constellation Orion. The sound of Strom- 
karl’s flute is heard in tinkling brooks, and his 
song in waterfalls. In the forest the Skogs- 
frun, of wondrous beauty, leads young men 
astray ; and Tomtgubbe hammers and pounds 
away, all night long, at the peasant’s unfin- 
ished cottage. 

Almost primeval simplicity reigns over this 
Northern land, — almost primeval solitude and 
stillness. You pass out from the gate of the 
city, and, as if by magic, the scene changes to 
a wild, woodland landscape. Around you are 
forests of fir. Overhead hang the long fan- 
like branches trailing with moss, and heavy 
with red and blue cones. Underfoot is a car- 
pet of yellow leaves, and the air is warm and 
balmy. On a wooden bridge you cross a little 
silver stream. Anon you come forth into a 
pleasant and sunny land of farms. Wooden 
fences divide the adjoining fields. Across the 
road are gates, which are opened for you by 
troops of flaxen-haired children. The peas- 
ants take off their hats as you pass. You 


58 


Drift-Wood 


sneeze, and they cry, “ God bless you ! ” The 
houses in the villages and smaller cities are all 
built of hewn timber, and for the most part 
painted red. The floors of the taverns are 
strewn with the fragrant tips of fir boughs. 
In many villages there are no taverns, and 
the peasants take turns in receiving travellers. 
The thrifty housewife shows you into the best 
chamber, the walls of which are hung round 
with rude pictures from the Bible ; and brings 
you her heavy silver spoons — an heirloom — 
to dip the curdled milk from the pan. You 
have oaten cakes baked some months before ; 
or bread with anise-seed and coriander in it, 
and perhaps a little pine-bark.* 

Meanwhile the sturdy husband has brought 
his horses from the plough, and harnessed 
them to your carriage. Solitary travellers 
come and go in uncouth one-horse chaises. 

* Speaking of Dalekarlia a Swedish writer says : “In the 
poorer parishes the inhabitants are forced, even in good years, 
to mingle some bark in their bread. ” Of Elfdalen he says : 
“The people are poor; without bark-bread they could not 
live the year out. The traveller who visits these regions, anld 
sees by the roadside long rows of young pines stripped of 
their bark, in answer to his question wherefore this is so, 
hears, and truly not without emotion, his postilion’s reply? 

‘ To make bread for ourselves and for our children.’ ” 


59 


Frithiof s Saga 

Most of them have pipes in their mouths, 
and, hanging around their necks in front, a 
leathern wallet, wherein they carry tobacco, 
and the great bank-notes of the country, as 
large as your two hands. You meet, also, 
groups of Dalekarlian peasant-women, trav- 
elling homeward or city-ward in pursuit of 
work. They walk barefoot, carrying in their 
hands their shoes, which have high heels un- 
der the hollow of the foot, and the soles of 
birch-bark. 

Frequent, too, are the village churches stand- 
ing by the roadside, each in its own little gar- 
den of Gethsemane. In the parish register 
great events are doubtless recorded. Some 
old king was christened or buried in that 
church ; and a little sexton, with a great rusty 
key, shows you the baptismal font, or the 
coffin. In the churchyard are a few flowers 
and much green grass ; and daily the shadow 
of the church spire with its long, tapering 
finger, counts the tombs, thus representing an 
index of human life, on which the hours and 
minutes are the graves of men. The stones 
are flat, and large, and low, and perhaps 
sunken, like the roofs of old houses. On 
some are armorial bearings ; on others, only 


6o 


Drift- Wood 


the initials of the poor tenants, with a date, 
as on the roofs of Dutch cottages. They all 
sleep with their heads to the westward. Each 
held a lighted taper in his hand when he died ; 
and in his coffin were placed his little heart- 
treasures, and a piece of money for his last 
journey. Babes that came lifeless into the 
world were carried in the arms of gray-haired 
old men to the only cradle they ever slept in ; 
and in the shroud of the dead mother were 
laid the little garments of the child that lived 
and died in her bosom. And over this scene 
the village pastor looks from his window in 
the stillness of midnight, and says in his heart, 
‘‘ How quietly they rest, all the departed ! ” 
Near the churchyard g'ate stands a poor-box, 
fastened to a post by iron bands, and secured 
by a padlock, with a sloping wooden roof to 
keep off the rain. If it be Sunday the peas- 
ants sit on the church steps and con their 
psalm-books. Others are coming down the 
road with their beloved pastor, who talks to 
them of holy things from beneath his broad- 
brimmed hat. He speaks of fields and har- 
vests, and of the parable of the sower that 
went forth to sow. He leads them to the 
Good Shepherd, and to the pleasant pastures 


Frithiofs Saga 6i 

of the spirit-land. He is their patriarch, and, 
like Melchisedek, both priest and king, though 
he has no other throne than the church pulpit. 
The women carry psalm-books in their hands, 
wrapped in silk handkerchiefs, and listen de- 
voutly to the good man’s words. But the 
young men, like Gallio, care for none of these 
things. They are busy counting the plaits in 
the kirtles of the peasant-girls, their number 
being an indication of the wearer’s wealth. 
It may end in a wedding. 

I must describe a village wedding in Swe- 
den. It shall be in summer time, that there 
may be flowers, and in a southern province, 
that the bride may be fair. The early song 
of the lark and of chanticleer are mingling in 
the clear morning air ; and the sun, the heav- 
enly bridegroom with golden locks, arises in 
the east, just as Olof Olofsson, our earthly 
bridegroom with yellow hair, arises in the 
south. In the yard there is a sound of voices 
and trampling of hoofs, and horses are led 
forth and saddled. The steed that is to bear 
the bridegroom has a bunch of flowers upon 
his forehead, and a garland of corn-flowers 
around his neck. Friends from the neighbor- 
ing farms come riding in, their blue cloaks 


62 


Drift- Wood 


streaming to the wind ; and finally, the happy 
bridegroom, with a whip in his hand, and a 
monstrous nosegay in the breast of his black 
jacket, comes forth from his chamber ; and 
then to horse and away, towards the village 
where the bride already sits and waits. 

Foremost rides the Spokesman, followed by 
some half-dozen village musicians, all blow- 
ing and drumming and fifing away like mad. 
Then comes the bridegroom between his two 
groomsmen, and then forty or fifty friends and 
wedding guests, half of them perhaps with 
pistols and guns in their hands. A kind of 
baggage-wagon brings up the rear, laden with 
meat and drink for these merry pilgrims. At 
the entrance of every village stands a trium- 
phal arch, adorned with flowers and ribbons 
and evergreens ; and as they pass beneath it 
the wedding guests fire a salute, and the 
whole procession stops. And straight from 
every pocket flies a black-jack, filled with 
punch or brandy. It is passed from hand to 
hand among the crowd ; provisions are brought 
from the wagon of the sumpter horse ; and 
after eating and drinking and loud hurrahs, 
the procession moves forward again, and at 
length draws near the house of the bride. 


^3 


Frithiof^s Saga 

Four heralds ride forward to announce that 
a knight and his attendants are in the neigh- 
boring forest, and pray for hospitality. How 
many are you } '' asks the bride’s father. At 
least three hundred,” is the answer ; and to 
this the host replies, ‘'Yes; were you seven 
times as many you should all be welcome ; 
and in token thereof receive this cup.” Where- 
upon each herald receives a can of ale, and 
soon after the whole jovial company come 
storming into the farmer’s yard, and, riding 
round the May-pole, which stands in the cen 
tre, alight amid a grand salute and flourish 
of music. 

In the hall sits the bride, with a crown upon 
her head and a tear in her eye, like the Virgin 
Mary in old church paintings. She is dressed 
in a red bodice and kirtle, with loose linen 
sleeves. There is a gilded belt around her 
waist ; and around her neck, strings of golden 
beads and a golden chain. On the crown 
rests a wreath of wild roses, and below it an- 
other of cypress. Loose over her shoulders 
falls her flaxen hair ; and her blue innocent 
eyes are fixed upon the ground. O thou good 
soul ! thou hast hard hands, but a soft heart ! 
Thou art poor. The very ornaments thou 


64 


Drift- Wood 


wearest are not thine. They have been hired 
for this great day. Yet art thou rich ; rich in 
health, rich in hope, rich in thy first, young, 
fervent love. The blessing of Heaven be 
upon thee ! So thinks the parish priest, as he 
joins together the hands of bride and bride- 
groom, saying, in deep, solemn tones : “ I give 
thee in marriage this damsel, to be thy wed- 
ded wife in all honor, and to share the half of 
thy bed, thy lock and key, and every third 
penny which you two may possess, or may in- 
herit, and all the rights which Upland’s laws 
provide, and the holy King Erik gave.” 

The dinner is now served, and the bride sits 
between the bridegroom and the priest. The 
Spokesman delivers an oration, after the an- 
cient custom of his fathers. He interlards it 
well with quotations from the Bible ; and in- 
vites the Saviour to be present at this mar- 
riage feast, as he was at the marriage feast in 
Cana of Galilee. The table is not sparingly set 
forth. Each makes a long arm, and the feast 
goes cheerly on. Punch and brandy are served 
up between the courses, and here and there a 
pipe smoked while waiting for the next dish. 
They sit long at table ; but, as all things must 
have an end, so must a Swedish dinner. Then 


Frithiofs Saga 


65 


the dance begins. It is led off by the bride 
and the priest, who perform a solemn minuet 
together. Not till after midnight comes the 
Last Dance. The girls form a ring around 
the bride to keep her from the hands of the 
married women, who endeavor to break through 
the magic circle and seize their new sister. 
After long struggling, they succeed ; and the 
crown is taken from her head and the jewels 
from her neck, and her bodice is unlaced and 
her kirtle taken off ; and like a vestal virgin 
clad in white she goes, but it is to her mar- 
riage chamber, not to her grave ; and the wed- 
ding guests follow her with lighted candles in 
their hands. And this is a village bridal. 

Nor must we forget the sudden changing 
seasons of the Northern clime. There is no 
long and lingering Spring, unfolding leaf and 
blossom one by one ; no long and lingering 
Autumn, pompous with many-colored leaves 
and the glow of Indian summers. But Win- 
ter and Summer are wonderful, and pass into 
each other. The quail has hardly ceased pip- 
ing in the corn when Winter, from the folds of 
trailing clouds, sows broadcast over the land 
snow, icicles, and rattling hail. The days 
wane apace. Erelong the sun hardly rises 


66 


Drift- Wood 


above the horizon, or does not rise at all. The 
moon and the stars shine through the day ; 
only at noon they are pale and wan, and in 
the southern sky a red, fiery glow, as of sun- 
set, burns along the horizon, and then goes 
out. And pleasantly under the silver moon, 
and under the silent, solemn stars, ring the 
steel shoes of the skaters on the frozen sea, 
and voices and the sound of bells. 

And now the Northern Lights begin to 
burn, faintly at first, like sunbeams playing in 
the waters of the blue sea. Then a soft crim- 
son glow tinges the heavens. There is a blush 
on the cheek of night. The colors come and 
go ; and change from crimson to gold, from 
gold to crimson. The snow is stained with 
rosy light. Twofold from the zenith, east and 
west, flames a fiery sword ; and a broad band 
passes athwart the heavens like a summer 
sunset. Soft purple clouds come sailing over 
the sky, and through their vapory folds the 
winking stars shine white as silver. With 
such pomp as this is Merry Christmas ushered 
in, though only a single star heralded the first 
Christmas. And in memory of that day the 
Swedish peasants dance on straw ; and the 
peasant-girls throw straws at the timbered 


Frithiof's Saga 67 

roof of the hall, and for every one that sticks 
in a crack shall a groomsman come to their 
wedding. Merry Christmas indeed ! For 
pious souls church songs shall be sung, and 
sermons preached ; — 

“ And all the bells on earth shall ring, 

And all the angels in heaven shall sing, 

On Christmas day in the morning. ” 

But for Swedish peasants brandy and nut- 
brown ale in wooden bowls ; and the great 
Yule-cake crowned with a cheese, and gar- 
landed with apples, and upholding a three- 
armed candlestick over the Christmas feast. 
They may tell tales^ too, of Jons Lunds- 
bracka, and Lunkenfus, and the great Riddar 
Finke of Pingsdaga.* 

And now the glad, leafy midsummer, full 
of blossoms and the song of nightingales, is 
come ! Saint John has taken the flowers and 
festival of heathen Balder ; and in every vil- 
lage there is a May-pole fifty feet high, with 
wreaths and roses and ribbons streaming in 
the wind, and a noisy weathercock on top, to 
tell the village whence the wind cometh and 
whither it goeth. The sun does not set till 
ten o’clock at night ; and the children are at 


Titles of Swedish popular tales. 


68 


Drift-Wood 


play in the streets an hour later. The win- 
dows and doors are all open, and you may 
sit and read till midnight without a candle. 
O, how beautiful is the summer night, which 
is not night, but a sunless yet unclouded day, 
descending upon earth with dews, and shad- 
ows, and refreshing coolness ! How beautiful 
the long, mild twilight, which like a silver 
clasp unites to-day with yesterday ! How 
beautiful the silent hour, when Morning and 
Evening thus sit together, hand in hand, be- 
neath the starless sky of midnight ! From 
the church tower in the public square the bell 
tolls the hour, with a soft, musical chime ; and 
the watchman, whose watch-tower is the bel- 
fry, blows a blast in his horn for each stroke 
of the hammer, and four times to the four cor- 
ners of the heavens, in a sonorous voice, he 
chants : — 

“ Ho ! watchman, ho ! 

Twelve is the clock ! 

God keep our town 
From fire and brand, 

And hostile hand ! 

Twelve is the clock ! ’’ 

From his swallow’s nest in the belfry he can 
see the sun all night long ; and farther north 
the priest stands at his door in the warm mid- 


Frithiof's Saga 69 

night, and lights his pipe with a common burn- 
ing-glass. 

And all this while the good Bishop of 
Wexio is waiting, with his poem in his hand. 
And such a poem, too ! Alas ! I am but too 
well aware, that a brief analysis and a few 
scattered extracts can give only a faint idea of 
the original, and that consequently the admi- 
ration of my readers will probably lag some- 
what behind my own. If the poem itself 
should ever fall into their hands, I hope that 
the foregoing remarks on Sweden, which now 
may seem to them a useless digression, will 
nevertheless enable them to enter more easily 
into the spirit of the poem, and to feel more 
truly the influences under which it was written. 

I 

The first canto describes the childhood and 
youth of Frithiof and Ingeborg the fair, as 
they grew up together under the humble roof 
of Hilding, their foster-father. They are two 
plants in the old man’s garden ; — a young 
oak, whose stem is like a lance, and whose 
leafy top is rounded like a helm ; and a rose, 
in whose folded buds the Spring still sleeps 
and dreams. But the storm comes, and the 


70 


Drift- Wood 


young oak must wrestle with it ; the sun of 
Spring shines warm in heaven, and the red 
lips of the rose open. The sports of their 
childhood are described. They sail together 
on the deep blue sea ; and when he shifts the 
sail, she claps her small white hands in glee. 
For her he plunders the highest bird’s-nests, 
and the eagle’s eyry, and bears her through 
the rushing mountain brook, it is so sweet 
when the torrent roars to be pressed by small 
white arms. 

But childhood and the sports thereof soon 
pass away, and Frithiof becomes a mighty 
hunter. He fights the bear without spear or 
sword, and lays the conquered monarch of 
the forest at the feet of Ingeborg. And when, 
by the light of the winter-evening hearth, he 
reads the glorious songs of Valhalla, no god- 
dess, whose beauty is there celebrated, can 
compare with Ingeborg. Freya’s golden hair 
may wave like a wheat-field in the wind, but 
Ingeborg’s is a net of gold around roses and 
lilies. Iduna’s bosom throbs full and fair be- 
neath her silken vest, but beneath the silken 
vest of Ingeborg two Elves of Light leap up 
with rose-buds in their hands. And she em- 
broiders in gold and silver the wondrous deeds 


Frithiof's Saga 


71 


of heroes ; and the face of every champion 
that looks up at her from the woof she is 
weaving is the face of Frithiof ; and she 
blushes and is glad ; — that is to say, they 
love each other a little. Ancient Hilding does 
not favor their passion, but tells his foster-son 
that the maiden is the daughter of King Bele, 
and he but the son of Thorsten Vikingsson, 
a Thane ; he should not aspire to the love of 
one who has descended in a long line of an- 
cestors from the star-clear hall of Odin him- 
self Frithiof smiles in scorn, and replies that 
he has slain the shaggy king of the forest, 
and inherits his ancestors with his hide ; and 
moreover that he will possess his bride, his 
white lily, in spite of the very god of thunder ; 
for a puissant wooer is the sword. 

II 

Thus closes the first canto. In the second, 
old King Bele stands leaning on his sword in 
his hall, and with him is his faithful brother 
in arms, Thorsten Vikingsson, the father of 
Frithiof, silver-haired, and scarred like a runic 
stone. The king complains that the evening 
of his days is drawing near, that the mead is 
no longer pleasant to his taste, and that his 


72 


Drift- Wood 


helmet weighs heavily upon his brow. He 
feels the approach of death. Therefore he 
summons to his presence his two sons, Helge 
and Halfdan, and with them Frithiof, that 
he may give a warning to the young eagles 
before the words slumber on the dead man’s 
tongue. Foremost advances Helge, a grim 
and gloomy figure, who loves to dwell among 
the priests and before the altars, and now 
comes, with blood upon his hands, from the 
groves of sacrifice. And next to him ap- 
proaches Halfdan, a boy with locks of light, 
and so gentle in his mien and bearing that he 
seems a maiden in disguise. And after these, 
wrapped in his mantle blue, and a head taller 
than either, comes Frithiof, and stands be- 
tween the brothers, like midday between the 
rosy morning and the shadowy night. Then 
speaks the king, and tells the young eaglets 
that his sun is going down, and that they 
must rule his realm after him in harmony and 
brotherly love ; that the sword was given for 
defence and not for offence ; that the shield 
was forged as a padlock for the peasant’s 
barn ; and that they should not glory in their 
fathers’ honors, as each can bear his own only. 
If we cannot bend the bow, he says, it is not 


73 


Frithiof's Saga 

ours ; what have we to do with worth that is 
buried ? The mighty stream goes into the 
sea with its own waves. These, and many 
other wise sayings, fall from the old man’s dy- 
ing lips ; and then Thorsten Vikingsson, who 
means to die with his king as he has lived 
with him, arises and addresses his son Fri- 
thiof He tells him that old age has whis- 
pered many warnings in his ear, which he 
will repeat to him ; for as the birds of Odin 
descend upon the sepulchres of the North, so 
words of manifold wisdom descend upon the 
lips of the old. Then follows much sage ad- 
vice ; — that he should serve his king, for one 
alone shall reign, — the dark Night has many 
eyes, but the Day has only one ; that he 
should not praise the day until the .sun had 
set, nor his beer until he had drunk it ; that 
he should not trust to ice but one night old, 
nor snow in spring, nor a sleeping snake, 
nor the words of a maiden on his knee, — 
sagacious hints from the High Song of Odin. 
Then the old men speak together of their 
long-tried friendship ; and the king praises 
the valor and heroic strength of Frithiof, and 
Thorsten has much to say of the glory which 
crowns the Kings of the North-land, the sons 


74 


Drift-Wood 


of the gods. Then the king speaks to his 
sons again, and bids them greet his daughter, 
the rose-bud. In retirement, says he, as it be- 
hoved her, has she grown up ; protect her ; let 
not the storm come and fix upon his helmet 
my delicate flower. And he bids them bury 
him and his ancient friend by the seaside, — 
by the billow blue, for its song is pleasant to 
the spirit evermore, and, like a funeral dirge, 
its blows ring against the strand. 

Ill 

And now King Bele and Thorsten Vikings- 
son are gathered to their fathers ; Helge and 
Halfdan share the throne between them, and 
Frithiof retires to his ancestral estate at Fram- 
nas ; of which a description is given in the 
third canto, conceived and executed in a truly 
Homeric spirit. 

“ Three miles extended around the fields of the homestead, 
on three sides 

Valleys and mountains and hills, but on the fourth side was 
the ocean. 

Birch woods crowned the summits, but down the slope of 
the hillsides 

Flourished the^ golden corn, and man-high was waving the 
rye-field. 

Lakes, full many in number, their mirror held up for the 
mountains. 


Frithiof’s Saga 


75 


Held for the forests up, in whose depths the high-homed 
reindeers 

Had their kingly walk, and drank of a hundred brooklets. 

But in the valleys widely around, there fed on the green- 
sward 

Herds with shining hides and udders that longed for the 
milk-pail. 

’Mid these scattered, now here and now there, were num- 
berless flocks of 

Sheep with fleeces white, as thou seest the white-looking 
stray clouds. 

Flock-wise spread o’er the heavenly vault, when it bloweth 
in spring-time. 

Coursers two times twelve, all mettlesome, fast fettered 
storm-winds. 

Stamping stood in the line of stalls, and tugged at their 
fodder. 

Knotted with red were their manes, and their hoofs all 
white with steel shoes. 

Th’ banquet-hall, a house by itself, was timbered of hard fir. 

Not five hundred men (at ten times twelve to the hundred^ 

Filled up the roomy hall, when assembled for drinking, at 
Y ule-tide. 

Y'horough the hall, as long as it was, went a table of holm-oak, 

Polished and white, as of steel ; the columns twain of the 
High-seat 

Stood at the end thereof, two gods carved out of an elm-tree ; 

Odinf with lordly look, and FreyJ with the sun on his 
frontlet 

* An old fashion of reckoning in the North. 

t Odin, the All -father ; the Jupiter of the Scandinavian 
mythology. 

X Frey, the god of Fertility ; the Bacchus of the North. 


76 


Drift- Wood 

Lately between the two, on a bear-skin, (the skin it was 
coal-black. 

Scarlet-red was the throat, but the paws were shodden with 
silver,) 

Thorsten sat with his friends. Hospitality sitting with Glad- 
ness. 

Oft, when the moon through the cloud-rack flew, related 
the old man 

Wonders from distant lands he had seen, and cruises of 
Vikings * 

Far away on the Baltic, and Sea of the West, and the 
White Sea. , 

Hushed sat the listening bench, and their glances hung on 
the graybeard’s 

Lips, as a bee on the rose ; but the Skald was thinking of 
Brage,t 

Where, with his silver beard, and runes on his tongue, he is 
seated 

Under the leafy beach, and tells a tradition by Mimer^s^: 

Ever-murmuring wave, himself a living tradition. 

.^Midway the floor (with thatch was it strewn) burned evel 
the fire-flame 

Glad on its stone-built hearth ; and thorough the wide- 
mouthed smoke-flue 

. Looked the stars, those heavenly friends, down (into the 
great hall. 

Round the walls, upon nails of steel, were hanging in order 

Breastplate and helmet together, and here and there among 
them 

* The old pirates of the North. 

t Brage, the god of Song ; the Scandinavian Apollo. 

t Mimer, the Giant, who possessed the Well of Wisdom, 
under one of the roots of the Ash Igdrasil. 


Frithiof's Saga 77 

Downward lightened a sword, as in winter evening a star 
shoots. 

More than helmets and swords the shields in the hall were 
resplendent, 

White as the orb of the sun, or white as the moon’s disk of 
silver. 

Ever and anon went a maid round the board, and filled up 
the drink -horns, 

Ever she cast down her eyes and blushed ; in the shield her 
reflection 

Blushed, too, even as she ; this gladdened the drinking 
champions. ” 

Among the treasures of Frithiofs house are 
three of transcendent worth. The first of these 
is the sword Angurvadel, brother of the light- 
ning, handed down from generation to genera- 
tion, since the days of Bjorn Blatand, the Blue- 
toothed Bear. The hilt thereof was of beaten 
gold, and on the blade were wondrous runes, 
known only at the gates of the sun. In peace 
these runes were dull, but in time of war they 
burned red as the comb of a cock when he 
fights ; and lost was he who in the night of 
slaughter met the sword of the flaming runes ! 

The second in price is an arm-ring of pure 
gold, made by Vaulund, the limping Vulcan 
of the North ; and containing upon its border 
the signs of the zodiac, — the Houses of the 
Twelve Immortals. This ring had been hand- 


78 


Drift- Wood 


ed down in the family of Frithiof from the 
days when it came from the hands of Vau- 
lund, the founder of the race. It was once 
stolen and carried to England by Viking Sote, 
who there buried himself alive in a vast tomb, 
and with him his pirate-ship and all his treas- 
ures. King Bele and Thorsten pursue him, 
and through a crevice of the door look into 
the tomb, where they behold the ship, with 
anchor and masts and spars ; and on the deck, 
a fearful figure, clad in a mantle of flame, sits, 
gloomily scouring a blood-stained sword. The 
ring is upon his arm. Thorsten bursts the 
doors of the great tomb asunder with his 
lance, and, entering, does battle with the grim 
spirit, and bears home the ring as a trophy of 
his victory.* 

» The third great treasure of the house of 
Frithiof is the dragon-ship Ellida. It was 
given to one of Frithiof s ancestors by a sea- 
god, wh6m this ancestor saved from drown- 
ing, somewhat as Saint Christopher did the 
angel. The ancient mariner was homeward 
bound, when at a distance on the wreck of a 

* Not unlike the old tradition of the ring of Gyges ; which 
was found on a dead man’s finger in the flank of a brazen 
horse, deep buried in a chasm of the earth* 


Frithiof's Saga 


79 


ship he espied an old man with sea-green 
locks, a beard white as the foam of waves, 
and a face which smiled like the sea when it 
plays in sunshine. Viking takes this Old Man 
of the Sea home with him, and entertains him 
in hospitable guise ; but at bedtime the green- 
haired guest, instead of going quietly to his 
rest like a Christian man, sets sail again on 
his wreck, like a hobgoblin, having, as he 
says, a hundred miles to go that night, at the 
same time telling the Viking to look the next 
morning on the sea-shore for a gift of thanks. 
And the next morning, behold ! the dragon- 
ship Ellida comes sailing up the harbor, like 
a phantom ship, with all her sails set, and 
not a man on board. Her prow is a dragon’s 
head, with jaws of gold ; her stern, a dragon’s 
•tail, twisted and scaly with silver ; her wings 
black, tipped with red ; and when she spreads 
them all, she flies a race with the roaring 
storm, and the eagle is left behind. 

These were Frithiof’s treasures, renowned 
in the North ; and thus in his hall, with Bjorn, 
his bosom friend, he sat, surrounded by his 
champions twelve, with breasts of steel and 
furrowed brows, the comrades of his father, 
and all the guests that had gathered together 


8o 


Drift- Wood 


to pay the funeral rites to Thorsten, the son 
of Viking. And Frithiof, with eyes full of 
tears, drank to his father’s memory, and heard 
the song of the Scalds, a dirge of thunder. 

IV 

Frithiof s Courtship is the title of the fourth 
canto. 

“ High sounded the song in Frithiof ’s hall, 

And the Scalds they praised his fathers all ; 

But the song rejoices 

Not Frithiof, he hears not the Scalds’ loud voices. 

“ And the earth has clad itself green again. 

And the dragons swim once more on the main. 

But the hero’s son 

He wanders in woods, and looks at the moon.” 

He had lately made a banquet for Helge and 
Halfdan, and sat beside Ingeborg the fair, and 
spoke with her of those early days when the 
dew of morning still lay upon life ; of the rem- 
iniscences of childhood ; their names carved 
in the birch-tree’s bark ; the well-known val- 
ley and woodland, and the hill where the 
great oaks grew from the dust of heroes. 
And now the banquet closes, and Frithiof 
remains at his homestead to pass his days 
in idleness and dreams. But this strange 
mood pleases not his friend the Bear. 


Frithiof's Saga 


8i 


It pleased not Bjorn these things to see : 

‘ What ails the young eagle now,' said he, 

‘ So still, so oppressed ? 

Have they plucked his wings ? have they pierced his breast ? 

‘ What wilt thou ? Have we not more than we need 
Of the yellow lard and the nut-brown mead ? 

And of Scalds a throng ? 

There ’s never an end to their ballads long. 

“ ‘ True enough, the coursers stamp in their stall, 

For prey, for prey, scream the falcons all ; 

But Frithiof only 

Hunts in the clouds, and weeps so lonely.' 


“ Then Frithiof set the dragon free. 

And the sails swelled full, and snorted the sea. 

Right over the bay 

To the sons of the King he steered his way.” 

He finds them at the grave of their father, 
King Bele, giving audience to the people, and 
promulgating laws, and he boldly asks the 
hand of their sister Ingeborg, this alliance be- 
ing in accordance with the wishes of King 
Bele. To this proposition Helge answers, in 
scorn, that his sister’s hand is not for the son 
of a thane ; that he needs not the sword of 
Frithiof to protect his throne, but if he will 
be his serf, there is a place vacant among the 
house-folk which he can fill. Indignant at 


82 


Drift- Wood 


this reply, Frithiof draws his sword of the 
flaming runes, and at one blow cleaves in 
twain the golden shield of Helge as it hangs 
on a tree, and, turning away in disdain, de- 
parts over the blue sea homeward. 

V 

In the next canto the scene changes. Old 
King Ring pushes back his golden chair from 
the table, and arises to speak to his heroes 
and Scalds, — old King Ring, a monarch re- 
nowned in the North, beloved by all as a 
father to the land he governs, and whose 
name each night goes up to Odin with the 
prayers of his people. He announces to them 
his intention of taking to himself a new 
queen as a mother to his infant son, and tells 
them he has fixed his choice upon Ingeborg^ 
the lily small, with the blush of morn on her 
cheeks. Messengers are forthwith sent to 
Helge and Halfdan, bearing golden gifts, and 
attended by a long train of Scalds, who sing 
heroic ballads to the sound of their harps. 
Three days and three nights they revel at the 
court ; and on the fourth morning receive from 
Helge a solemn refusal and from Halfdan a 
taunt, that King Graybeard should ride forth 


Frithiof's Saga 


83 


in person to seek his bride. Old King Ring 
is wroth at the reply, and straightway pre- 
pares to avenge his wounded pride with his 
sword. He smites his shield as it hangs on 
the bough of the high linden-tree, and the 
dragons swim forth on the waves with blood- 
red combs, and the helms nod in the wind. 
The sound of the approaching war reaches 
the ears of the royal brothers, and they place 
their sister for protection in the temple of 
Balder.* 


VI 

In the next canto, which is the sixth, Fri- 
thiof and Bjorn are playing chess together, 
when old Hilding comes in, bringing the 
prayer of Helge and Halfdan, that Frithiof 
would aid them in the war against King 
Ring. Frithiof, instead of answering the old 
man, continues his game, making allusions as 
it goes on to the king's being saved by a 
peasant or pawn, and the necessity of rescu- 
ing the queen at all hazards. Finally, he tells 
the ancient Hilding to return to Bele’s sons 
and tell them that they have wounded his 
honor, that no ties unite them together, and 


Balder, the god of the Summer Sun. 


84 


Drift- Wood 


that he will never be their bondman. So 
closes this short and very spirited canto. 

VII 

The seventh canto describes the meeting 
of Frithiof and Ingeborg in Balder’s temple, 
when silently the high stars stole forth, like a 
lover to his maid, on tiptoe. He;-e all pas- 
sionate vows are retold ; he swears to protect 
her with his sword while here on earth, and 
to sit by her side hereafter in Valhalla, when 
the champions ride forth to battle from the 
silver gates, and maidens bear round the 
mead-horn mantled with golden foam. 

VIII 

The eighth canto commences in this wise. 
Ingeborg sits in Balder’s temple, and waits 
the coming of Frithiof, till the stars fade 
away in the morning sky. At length he 
arrives, wild and haggard. He comes from 
the Ting, or council, where he has offered his 
hand in reconciliation to King Helge, and 
again asked of him his sister in marriage, 
before the assembly of the warriors. A thou- 
sand swords hammered applause upon a thou- 
sand shields, and the ancient Hilding with 


8s 


Frithiof's Saga 

his silver beard stepped forth and held a talk 
full of wisdom, in short, pithy language, that 
sounded like the blows of a sword. But all 
in vain. King Helge says him nay, and 
brings against him an accusation of having 
profaned the temple of Balder by daring to 
visit Ingeborg there. Death or banishment 
is the penalty of the law ; but instead of be- 
ing sentenced to the usual punishment, Fri- 
thiof is ordered to sail to the Orkney Islands, 
in order to force from Jarl Angantyr the pay- 
ment of an annual tribute, which since Bele’s 
death he has neglected to pay. All this does 
Frithiof relate to Ingeborg, and urges her to 
escape with him to the lands of the South, 
where the sky is clearer, and the mild stars 
shall look down with friendly glance upon 
them through the warm summer nights. By 
the light of the winter-evening’s fire, old Thors- 
ten Vikingsson had told them tales of the Isles 
of Greece, with their green groves and shining 
billows ; — where, amid the ruins of marble 
temples, flowers grow from the runes that 
utter forth the wisdom of the past, and golden 
apples glow amid the leaves, and red grapes 
hang from every twig. All is prepared for 
their flight ; already Ellida spreads her shad- 


86 


Drift- Wood 


owy eagle-wings ; but Ingeborg refuses to es- 
cape. King Bele’s daughter will not deign to 
steal her happiness. In a beautiful and pas- 
sionate appeal, she soothes her lover’s wounded 
pride, and at length he resolves to undertake 
the expedition to Jarl Angantyr. He gives 
her the golden arm-ring of Vaulunder, and 
they part, she with mournful forebodings, and 
he with ardent hope of ultimate sifccess. This 
part of the poem is a dramatic sketch in blank 
verse. It is highly wrought, and full of poetic 
beauties. 


IX 

Ingeborg’s Lament is the subject of the 
ninth canto. She sits by the seaside, and 
watches the westward-moving sail, and speaks 
to the billows blue, and the stars, and to Fri- 
thiof’s falcon, that sits upon her shoulder, — 
the gallant bird whose image she has worked 
into her embroidery, with wings of silver and 
golden claws. She tells him to greet again 
and again her Frithiof, when he returns and 
weeps by her grave. 


X 

And now follows the ballad of Frithiof at 


Frithiof s Saga 


87 


Sea ; one of the most spirited and character- 
istic cantos of the poem. The versification, 
likewise, is managed with great skill ; each 
strophe consisting of three several parts, each 
in its respective metre. King Helge stands 
by the sea-shore and prays to the fiends for 
a tempest ; and soon Frithiof hears the wings 
of the storm flapping in the distance, and, as 
wind-cold Ham and snowy Held beat against 
the flanks of his ship, he sings : — 

“ Fairer was the journey, 

In the moonbeam^s shimmer, 

O^er the mirrored waters 
Unto Balder’s grove; 

Warmer than it here is, 

Close by Ingeborg’s bosom ; — 

Whiter than the sea-foam 
Swelled the maiden’s breast.” 

But the tempest waxes sore ; — it screams 
in the shrouds, and cracks in the keel, and 
the dragon-ship leaps from wave to wave like 
a goat from cliff to cliff. Frithiof fears that 
witchcraft is at work ; and calling Bjorn, he 
bids him gripe the tiller with his bear-paw 
while he climbs the mast to look out upon 
the sea. From aloft he sees the two fiends 
riding on a whale ; Held with snowy skin, 
and in shape like a white , bear, — Ham with 


88 


Drift-Wood 


outspread, sounding wings, like the eagle of 
the storm. A battle with these sea-monsters 
ensues. Ellida hears the hero’s voice, and 
with her copper keel smites the whale so 
that he dies ; and the whale-riders learn how 
bitter it is to bite blue steel, being transfixed 
with Northern spears hurled from a hero’s 
hand. And thus the storm is stilled, and 
Frithiof reaches at length the shores of An- 
gantyr. 

XI 

In the eleventh canto Jarl Angantyr sits in 
his ancestral hall carousing with his friends. 
In merry mood he looks forth upon the sea, 
where the sun is sinking into the waves like 
a golden swan. At the window the ancient 
Halvar stands sentinel, watchful alike of things 
within doors and without ; for ever and anon 
he drains the mead-horn to the bottom, and, 
uttering never a word, thrusts the empty horn 
in at the window to be filled anew. At length 
he announces the arrival of a tempest-tost ship ; 
and Jarl Angantyr looks forth, and recognizes 
the dragon-ship Ellida, and Frithiof, the son of 
his friend. No sooner has he made this known 
to his followers, than the Viking Atle springs 


89 


Frithiof'^s Saga 

up from his seat and screams aloud: “Now 
will I test the truth of the tale that Frithiof 
can blunt the edge of hostile sword, and never 
begs for quarter/’ Accordingly he and twelve 
other champions seize their arms, and rush 
down to the sea-shore to welcome the stranger 
with warlike sword-play. A single combat en- 
sues between Frithiof and Atle. Both shields 
are cleft in twain at once ; Angurvadel bites 
full sharp, and Atle’s sword is broken. Fri- 
thiof, disdaining an unequal contest, throws his 
own away, and the combatants wrestle together 
unarmed. Atle falls ; and Frithiof, as he plants 
his knee upon the breast of his foe, says that, 
if he had his sword, the Viking should feel its 
sharp edge and die. The haughty Atle bids 
him go and recover his sword, promising to lie 
still and await death, which promise he fulfils. 
Frithiof seizes Angurvadel, and when he re- 
turns to smite the prostrate Viking, he is so 
moved by his courage and magnanimity that 
he stays the blow, seizes the hand of the fallen, 
and they return together as friends tg the ban- 
quet-hall of Angantyr. This hall is adorned 
with more than wonted splendor. Its walls 
are not wainscoted with roughhewn planks, 
but covered with gold-leather, stamped with 


90 


Drift- Wood 


flowers and fruits. No hearth glows in the 
centre of the floor, but a marble fireplace leans 
against the wall. There is glass in the win- 
dows, there are locks on the doors ; and in- 
stead of torches, silver chandeliers stretch forth 
their arms with lights over the banquet-table, 
whereon is a hart roasted whole, with larded 
haunches, and gilded hoofs lifted as if to leap, 
and green leaves on its branching antlers. 
Behind each warrior’s seat stands a maiden, 
like a star behind a stormy cloud. And high 
on his royal chair of silver, with helmet shining 
like the sun, and breastplate inwrought with 
gold, and mantle star-spangled, and trimmed 
with purple and ermine, sits the Viking An- 
gantyr, Jarl of the Orkneys. With friendly 
salutations he welcomes the son of Thorsten, 
and in a goblet of Sicilian wine, foaming like 
the sea, drinks to the memory of the departed ; 
while Scalds, from the hills of Morven, sing 
heroic songs. Frithiof relates to him his ad- 
ventures at sea, and makes known the object 
of his mission ; whereupon Angantyr declares, 
that he was never tributary to King Bele ; 
that, although he pledged him in the wine-cup, 
he was not subject to his laws ; that his sons 
he knew not ; but that, if they wished to levy 


91 


Frithiof' s Saga 

tribute, they must do it with the sword, like 
men. And then he bids his daughter bring 
from her chamber a richly embroidered purse, 
which he fills with golden coins of foreign 
mint, and gives to Frithiof as a pledge of wel- 
come and hospitality. And Frithiof remains 
his guest till spring. 


XII 

In the twelfth canto we have a description 
of Frithiof’s return to his native land. He 
finds his homestead at Framnas laid waste by 
fire ; house, fields, and ancestral forests are all 
burnt over. As he stands amid the ruins, his 
falcon perches on his shoulder, his dog leaps 
to welcome him, and his snow-white steed 
comes with limbs like a hind and neck like a 
swan. He will have bread from his master’s 
hands. At length old Hilding appears from 
among the ruins, and tells a mournful tale ; 
how a bloody battle had been fought be- 
tween King Ring and Helge ; how Helge 
and his host had been routed, and in their 
flight through Framnas, from sheer malice, 
had laid waste the lands of Frithiof ; and 
finally, how, to save their crown and kingdom, 
the brothers had given Ingeborg to be the 


92 


Drift- Wood 


bride of King Ring. He describes the bri dal , 
as the train went up to the temple, with vir- 
gins in white, and men with swords, and 
Scalds, and the pale bride seated on a black 
steed like a spirit on a cloud. At the altar 
the fierce Helge had torn the bracelet, the gift 
of Frithiof, from Ingeborg’s arm, and adorned 
with it the image of Balder. And Frithiof 
remembers that it is now mid-summer, and 
festival time in Balder’s temple. Thither he 
directs his steps. 


XIII 

The sun stands, at midnight, blood-red on 
the mountains of the North. It is not day, it 
is not night, but something between the two. 
The fire blazes on the altar in the temple of 
Balder. Priests with silver beards and knives 
of flint in their hands stand there, and King 
Helge with his crown. A sound of arms is 
heard in the sacred grove without, and a voice 
commanding Bjorn to guard the door. Then 
Frithiof rushes in like a storm in autumn. 
“ Here is your tribute from the Western seas,” 
he cries ; “ take it, and then be there a battle 
for life and death between us twain, here by 
the light of Balder’s altar ; — shields behind 


93 


Frithiof's Saga 

ns, and bosoms bare ; — and the first blow be 
thine, as king ; but forget not that mine is the 
second. Look not thus toward the door j I have 
caught the fox in his den. Think of Framnas, 
think of thy sister with golden locks ! ” With 
these words he draws from his girdle the purse 
of Angantyr, and throws it into the face of the 
king with such force that. the blood gushes 
from his mouth, and he falls senseless at the 
foot of the altar. Frithiof then seizes the 
bracelet on Balder’s arm, and in trying to 
draw it off he pulls the wooden statue from its 
base, and it falls into the flames of the altar. 
In a moment the whole temple is in a blaze. 
All attempts to extinguish the conflagration 
are vain. The fire is victorious. Like a red 
bird the flame sits upon the roof, and flaps its 
loosened wings. Mighty was the funeral pyre 
of Balder ! 


XIV 

The fourteenth canto is entitled Frithiof in 
Exile. Frithiof sits at night on the deck of 
his ship, and chants a song of welcome to the 
sea, which, as a Viking, he vows to make his 
home in life and his grave in death. “Thou 
knowest naught,” he sings, “ thou Ocean free. 


94 Drifts Wood 

of a king who oppresses thee at his own 
will. 

“ Thy king is he 
Among the free, 

Who trembles never, 

How high soever 
H-eaves in unrest 
Thy foam-white breast 
Blue fields like these 
The hero please. 

His keels go thorough 
Like plough in the furrough, 

But steel-bright are 
The seeds sown there. ” 

He turns his prow from shore, and is 
putting to sea, when King Helge, with ten 
ships, comes sailing out to attack him. But 
anon the ships sink down into the sea, as if 
drawn downward by invisible hands, and Hel- 
ge saves himself by swimming ashore. Then 
Bjorn laughed aloud, and told how the night 
before he had bored holes in the bottom of 
each of Helge’s ships. But the king now 
stood on a cliff, and bent his mighty bow of 
steel against the rock with such force that it 
snapped in twain. And Frithiof jeering cried 
that it was rust that had broken the bow, not 
Helge’s strength ; and to show what nerve 
there was in a hero’s arm, he seized two pines, 


Frithiof's Saga 


95 


large enough for the masts of ships, but shaped 
into oars, and rowed with such marvellous 
strength that the two pines snapped in his 
hands like reeds. And now uprose the sun, 
and the land-breeze blew off shore ; and bid- 
ding his native land farewell, Frithiof the Vi- 
king sailed forth to scour the seas. 

XV 

The fifteenth canto contains the Viking's 
Code, the laws of the pirate-ship. No tent 
upon deck, no slumber in house ; but the 
shield must be the Vikings couch, and his 
tent the blue sky overhead. The hammer of 
victorious Thor is short, and the sword of 
Frey but an ell in length ; and the warrior’s 
steel is never too short if he goes near enough 
to the foe. Hoist high the sail when the wild 
storm blows ; ’t is merry in stormy seas ; on- 
ward and ever onward ; he is a coward who 
strikes ; rather sink than strike. There shall 
be neither maiden nor drunken revelry on 
board. The freighted merchantman shall be 
protected, but must not refuse his tribute to 
the Viking ; for the Viking is king of the 
waves, and the merchant a slave to gain, and 
the steel of the brave is as good as the gold 


96 


Drift- Wood 


of the rich. The plunder shall be divided on 
deck, by lot and the throwing of dice ; but in 
this the sea-king takes no share ; glory is- his 
prize ; he wants none other. They shall be 
valiant in fight, and merciful to the conquered ; 
for he who begs for quarter has no longer a 
sword, is no man’s foe ; and Prayer is a child 
of Valhalla, — they must listen to the voice of 
the pale one. With such laws sailed the Vi- 
king over the foaming sea for three weary 
years, and came at length to the Isles of 
Greece, which in days of yore his father had 
so oft described to him, and whither he had 
wished to flee with Ingeborg. And thus the 
forms of the absent and the dead rose up 
before him, and seemed to beckon him to his 
home in the North. He is weary of sea-fights, 
and of hewing men in twain, and the glory 
of battle. The flag at the mast-head pointed 
northward ; there lay the beloved land ; he 
resolved to follow the course of the winds of 
heaven, and steer back again to the North. 

XVI 

Canto sixteenth is a dialogue between Fri- 
thiof and his friend Bjorn, in which the latter 
gentleman exhibits some of the rude and un- 


Frithiof^s Saga 


97 


civilized tastes of his namesake, Bruin the 
Bear. They have again reached the shores 
of their fatherland. Winter is approaching. 
The sea begins to freeze around their keel. 
Frithiof is weary of a Viking’s life. He wishes 
to pass the Yule-tide on land, and to visit 
King Ring and his bride of the golden locks, 
his beloved Ingeborg. Bjorn, dreaming all 
the while of bloody exploits, offers himself as 
a companion, and talks of firing the king’s 
palace at night, and bearing off the queen by 
force. Or if his friend deems the old king 
worthy of a holmgang,* or of a battle on the 
ice, he is ready for either. But Frithiof tells 
him that only gentle thoughts now fill his 
bosom. He wishes only to take a last fare- 
well of Ingeborg. These delicate feelings can- 
not penetrate the hirsute breast of Bruin. He 
knows not what this love may be ; — this sigh- 
ing and sorrow for a maiden’s sake. The 
world, he says, is full of maidens ; and he 
offers to bring Frithiof a whole ship-load from 

* A duel between the Vikings of the North was called a 
hohngang, because the two combatants met on an island to de- 
cide their quarrel. Fierce battles were likewise fought by 
armies on the ice : the frozen bays and lakes of a mountainous 
country being oftentimes the only plains large enough for 
battle-fields. 


98 


Drift-Wood 


the glowing South, all red as roses and gentle 
as lambs. But Frithiof will not stay. He re- 
solves to go to King Ring ; but not alone, for 
his sword goes with him. 

XVII 

The seventeenth canto relates how King 
Ring sat in his banquet-hall at Yule-tide and 
drank mead. At his side sat Ingeborg.his 
queen, like Spring by the side of Autumn. 
And an old man, and unknown, all wrapped 
in skins, entered the hall, and humbly took 
his seat near the door. And the courtiers 
looked at each other with scornful smiles, and 
pointed with the finger at the hoary bear-skin 
man. At this the stranger waxed angry, and 
seizing with one hand a young coxcomb, he 
“twirled him up and down.” The rest grew 
silent ; he would have done the same with 
them. “ Who breaks the peace } ” quoth the 
•king. “Tell us who thou art, and whence, 
old man.” And the old man answered, 

** -Anguish was I nurtured, Want is my homestead hight. 
Now come I from the Wolf’s den, I slept with him last 
night. • 

But King Ring is not so easily duped, and 
bids the stranger lay aside his disguise. And 


99 


Frithiofs Saga 

straight the shaggy bear-skin fell from the 
head of the unknown guest, and down from 
his lofty forehead, over his shoulders broad 
and full, floated his shining ringlets like a 
wave of gold. Frithiof stood before them in 
a rich mantle of blue velvet, with a hand- 
broad silver belt around his waist ; and the 
color came and went in the cheek of the 
queen like the Northern light on fields of 
snow, 

“ And as two water-lilies, beneath the tempest’s might, 

Lie heaving on the billow, so heaved feer bosom white.” 

And now a horn blew in the hall, and kneel- 
ing on a silver dish, with haunch and shoulder 
hung with garlands gay and rosemary,'' and 
holding an apple in his mouth, the wild-boar 
was brought in,* 

And King Ring rose up in his hoary locks, 
and, laying his hand upon the boar's head, 

. swore an oath that he would conquer Frithiof, 

* “ The old English custom of the boar’s head at Christmas 
dates from a far antiquity. It was in use at the festivals of 
Yule-tide among the pagan Northmen. The words of Chau- 
cer in the Franklein’s Tale will apply to the old hero of the 
North ; — 

“And he drinketh of his bugle-horn the wine. 

Before him standeth the brawne of the tusked swine.’* 


lOO 


Drift ‘ Wood 


the great champion, so help him Frey and 
Odin, and the mighty Thor. With a disdain- 
ful smile Frithiof threw his sword upon the 
table so that the hall echoed to the clang, and 
every warrior sprang up from his seat, and 
turning to the king he said : “Young Frithiof 
is my friend ; I know him well, and I swear to 
protect him, were it against the world; so 
help me Destiny and my good sword.” The 
king was pleased at this great freedom of 
speech, and invited the stranger to remain 
their guest till spring ; bidding Ingeborg fill a 
goblet with the choicest wine for the stranger. 
With downcast eyes and trembling hand she 
presented Frithiof a goblet, which two men, as 
men are now, could not have drained ; but he, 
in honor of his ladydove, quaffed it at a single 
draught. And then the Scald took his harp 
and sang the song of Hagbart and Fair Signe, 
the Romeo and Juliet of the North. And thus • 
•the Yule-carouse was prolonged far into the* 
night, and the old fellows drank deep, till at 
length 

“They all to sleep departed, withouten pain or care, 

But old King Ring, the graybeard, slept with Ingeborg the 
fair.” 


Frithiof'^s Saga loi 

XVIII 

The next canto describes a sledge-ride on 
the ice. It has a cold breath about it. The 
short, sharp stanzas are like the angry gusts 
of a northwester. 

“ King Ring with his queen to the banquet did farq, 

On the lake stood the ice so mirror-clear. 

“ ‘ Fare not o^er the ice, ’ the stranger cries ; 

‘ It will burst, and full deep the cold bath lies.* 

“ ‘ The king drowns not easily,’ Ring outspake ; 

‘ He who ’s afraid may go round the lake.* 

“ Threatening and dark looked the stranger round, 

His steel shoes with haste on his feet he bound. 

“ The sledge-horse starts forth strong and free ; 

He snorteth flames, so glad is he. 

‘ Strike out,’ screamed the king, ‘ my trotter good, 

Let us see if thou art of Sleipner’s* blood.* 

“They go as a storm goes over the lake. 

No heed to his queen doth the old man take. 

“ But the steel-shod champion standeth not still. 

He passeth them by as swift as he will. 

“ He carves many runes in the frozen tide. 

Fair Ingeborg o’er her own name doth glide.” 

Thus they speed away over the ice, but 
beneath them the treacherous Ran f lies in 

* The steed of Odin. 

f A giantess holding dominion over the waters. 


102 


Drift- Wood 


ambush. She breaks a hole in her silver 
roof, the sledge is sinking, and fair Ingeborg 
is pale with fear, when the stranger on his 
skates comes sweeping by like a whirlwind. 
He seizes the steed by his mane, and at a sin- 
gle pull places the sledge upon firm ice again. 
They return together to the king’s palace, 
where the stranger, who is none else than 
Frithiof, remains a guest till spring. 

f 

• XIX 

The nineteenth canto is entitled Frithiof ’s 
Temptation. It is as follows. 

“Spring is coming, birds are twittering, forests leaf, and 
smiles the sun, 

And the loosened torrents downward, singing, to tlie ocean 
run ; 

Glowing like the cheek of Freya, peeping rosebuds ’gin to 
ope, 

And in human hearts awaken love of life, and joy, and 
hope. 

“Now will hunt the ancient monarch, and the queen shall 
join the sport : 

Swarming in its gorgeous splendor, is assembled all the 
court ; 

Bows ring loud, and quivers rattle, stallions paw the ground 
alway. 

And, with hoods upon their eyelids, scream the falcons for 
their prey. 


103 


Frithiofs Saga 

See, the Queen of the chase advances ! Frithiof, gaze not 
at the sight ! 

Like a star upon a spring-cloud sits she on her palfrey 
white. 

Half of Freya,* half of Rota,t yet more beauteous than 
these two, 

And from her light hat of purple wave aloft the feathers 
blue. % 

Gaze not at her eye’s blue heaven, gaze not at her golden 
hair ! 

O beware ! her waist is slender, full her bosom is, beware I 

Look not at the rose and lily on her cheek that shifting 
play. 

List not to the voice beloved, whispering like the wind of 
May. 

“ Now the huntsman’s band is ready. Hurrah ! over hill and 
dale ! 

Homs ring, and the hawks right upward to the hall of Odin 
sail. 

All the dwellers in the forest seek in fear their cayem 
homes. 

But, with spear outstretched before her, after them the Val- 
kyr comes.” 

The old king cannot keep pace with the 
chase. Frithiof rides beside him, silent and 
sad. Gloomy musings rise within him, and 

* The goddess of Love and Beauty j the Venus of the 
North. 

t One of the Valkyrs, or celestial virgins, who bear off the 
souls of the slain in battle. 


104 


Drift- Wood 


he hears continually the mournful voices of 
his own dark thoughts. Why had he left the 
ocean, where all care is blown away by the 
winds of heaven.? Here he wanders amid 
dreams and secret longings. He cannot for- 
get". Balder’s grove. But the grim gods are 
no longer friendly. They have taken his rose- 
bud and placed it on the breast of Winter, 
whose chill breath covers bud and leaf and 
stalk with ice. And thus they come to a 
lonely valley shut in by mountains, and over- 
shadowed by beeches and alders. Here the 
king alights ; the quiet of the place invites 
to slumber. 

“ Then threw Frithiof down his mantle, and upon the green- 
sward spread, 

And the ancient king so trustful laid on Frithiofs knee his 
head. 

Slept as calmly as the hero sleepeth, after war’s alarm. 

On his shield, or as an infant sleeps upon its mother’s 
arm. 

“ As he slumbers, hark ! there sings a coal-black bird upon 
the bough : 

‘Hasten, Frithiof, slay the old man, end your quarrel at a 
blow ; 

Take his queen, for she is thine, and once the bridal kiss 
she gave. 

Now no human eye beholds thee, deep and silent is the 
grave. ’ 


los 


Frithiof's Saga 

Frithiof listens ; hark ! there sings a snow-white bird upon 
the bough ; 

‘Though no human eye beholds thee, Odin’s eye beholds 
thee now. 

Coward ! wilt thou murder sleep, and a defenceless old man 
slay ! 

Whatsoe’er thou winn’st, thou canst not win a hero’s fame 
this way. ’ 

Thus the two wood-birds did warble : Frithiof took his war- 
sword good, 

With a shudder hurled it from him, far into the gloomy wood. 

Coal-black bird flies down to Nastrand,* but on light, un- 
folded wings. 

Like the tone of harps, the other, sounding towards the 
sun, upsprings. 

“ Straight the ancient king awakens. ‘ Sweet has been my 
sleep,' he said ; 

‘ Pleasantly sleeps one in the shadow, guarded by a brave 
man’s blade. 

But where is thy sword, O stranger ? Lightning’s brother, 
where is he ? 

Who thus parts you, who should never from each other part- 
ed be ! ' 

“ ‘ It avails not,’ Frithiof answered ; ‘ in the North are other 
swords : 

Sharp, O monarch ! is the sword’s tongue, and it speaks not , 
peaceful words ; 

Murky spirits dwell in steel blades, spirits from the Niffel- 
hem ; 

Slumber is not safe before them, silver locks but anger 
them.”' 

* The Strand of Corpses ; a region in the Niffelhem, or 
Scandinavian hell. 


io6 


Drift- Wood 


To this the old king replies, that he has not 
been asleep, but has feigned sleep, merely to 
put Frithiof — for he has long recognized the 
hero in his guest — to the trial. He then up- 
braids him for having come to his palace in 
disguise, to steal his queen away ; he had ex- 
pected the coming of a warrior with an army ; 
he beheld only a beggar in tatters. But 
now he has proved him, and forgiven ; has 
pitied, and forgotten. He is soon to be gath- 
ered to his fathers. Frithiof shall take his 
queen and kingdom after him. Till then he 
shall remain his guest, and thus their feud 
shall have an end. But Frithiof answers, that 
he came not as a thief to steal away the queen, 
but only to gaze upon her face once more. He 
will remain no longer. The vengeance of the 
offended gods hangs over him. He is an out- 
law. On the green earth he seeks no more for 
peace ; for the earth burns beneath his feet, 
and the trees lend him. no shadow. ‘‘ There- 
fore,’' he cries, ‘‘ away to sea again ! Away, 
my dragon brave, to bathe again thy pitch- 
black breast in the briny wave ! Flap thy 
white wings in the clouds, and cut the billow 
with a whistling sound ; fly, fly, as far as the 
bright stars guide thee, and the subject billows 


Frithiof^s Saga 


107 


bear. Let me hear the lightning’s voice again ; 
and on the open sea, in battle, amid clang of 
shields and arrowy rain, let me die, and go up 
to the dwelling of the gods ! ” 

XX 

\ 

In the twentieth canto the death of King 
Ring is described. The sunshine of a pleas- 
ant spring morning plays into the palace-hall, 
when Frithiof enters to bid his royal friends a 
last farewell. With them he bids his native 
land good night. 

“No more shall I see 
In its upward motion 

The smoke of the Northland. Man is a slave : 

The fates decree. 

On the waste of the ocean 

There is my fatherland, there is my grave. 

“ Go not to the strand, 

Ring, with thy bride. 

After the stars spread their light through the sky. 
Perhaps in the sand. 

Washed up by the tide. 

The bones of the outlawed Viking may lie. 

“ Then, quoth the king, 

‘ ’T is mournful to hear 
A man like a whimpering maiden cry. 

The death-song they sing 
Even now in mine ear. 

What avails it ? He who is born must die . ' ** 


io8 


Drift-Wood 


He then says that he himself is about to de- 
part for Valhalla j that a death on the straw 
becomes not a King of the Northmen. He 
would fain die the death of a hero; and he 
cuts on his arms and breasts the runes of 
death, — runes to Odin. And while the blood 
drops from among the silvery hairs of his na- 
ked bosom, he calls for a flowing goblet, and 
drinks a health to the glorious North ; and in 
spirit hears the Gjallar Horn,* and goes to 
Valhalla, where glory, like a golden helmet, 
crowns the coming guest. 

XXI 

The next canto is the Drapa, or Dirge of 
King Ring, in the unrhymed alliterative stan- 
zas of the old Icelandic poetry. The Scald 
sings how the high-descended monarch sits in 
his tomb, with his shield on his arm and his 
battle-sword by his side. His gallant steed, 
too, neighs in the tomb, and paws the ground 
with his golden hoofs.f But the spirit of the 

* The Gjallar Horn was blown by Heimdal, the watchman 
of the gods. He was the son of nine virgins, and was called 
the God with the Golden Teeth.” His watch-tower was 
upon the rainbow, and he blew his horn whenever a fallen 
hero rode over the Bridge of Heaven to Valhalla, 
t It was a Scandinavian, as well as a Scythian custom, to 


Frithiof^s Saga 


109 


departed rides over the rainbow, which bends 
beneath its burden, up to the open gates of 
Valhalla. Here the gods receive him, and 
garlands are woven for him of golden grain 
with blue flowers intermingled, and Brage 
sings a song of praise and welcome to the 
wise old Ring. 

“Now rideth royal 
Ring over Bifrost, * 

Sways with the burden 
The bending bridge. 

Open spring ValhalVs 
Vaulted doors widely ; 

Asanar’s f hands are 
Hanging in his. 

“Brage, the gi'aybeard, 

* Gripeth the gold string, 

Stiller now soundeth 
Song than before. 

Listening leaneth 
Vanadi’sJ lovely 
Breast at the banquet, 

Burning to hear. 

“ ‘ High sings the sword-blade 
Steady on helmet ; 

Boisterous the billows, and 
Bloody alway. 

bury the favorite steed of a warrior in the same tomb with 
him. 

* The rainbow. f The great gods. 


t Freya. 


no 


Drift- Wood 


Strength, of the gracious 
Gods is the gift, and 
Bitter as Berserk 
Biteth in shield. 

“ ‘ Welcome, thou wise one, 

Heir of Valhalla ! 

Long learn the Northland 
Laud to thy name. 

Brage doth hail thee. 

Honored with horn-drink, 

Nomoma’s herald 
Now from the North.* 

XXII 

The twenty-second canto describes, in a 
very spirited and beautiful style, the election 
of a new king. The yeoman takes his sword 
from the wall, and, with clang of shields and 
sound of arms, the people gather together in a 
public assembly, or Ting, whose roof is the sky 
of heaven. Here Frithiof harangues them, 
bearing aloft on his shield the little son of 
Ring, who sits there like a king on his throne, 
or a young eagle on the cliff, gazing upward 
at the sun. Frithiof hails him as King of the 
Northmen, and swears to protect his kingdom; 
and when the little boy, tired of sitting on the 
shield, leaps fearlessly to the ground, the peo- 
ple raise a shout, and acknowledge him for 


Ill 


Frithiof's Saga 

their monarch, and Jarl Frithiof as regent till 
the boy grows older. But Frithiof has other 
thoughts than these. He must away to meet 
the Fates at Balder's ruined temple, and make 
atonement to the offended god. And thus he 
departs. 


XXIII 

Canto twenty-third is entitled Frithiof at 
his Father’s Grave. The sun is sinking like a 
golden shield in the ocean, and the hills and 
vales around him, and the fragrant flowers, 
and song of birds, and sound of the sea, and 
shadow of trees, awaken in his softened heart 
the memory of other days. And he calls 
aloud to the gods for pardon of his crime, and 
to the spirit of his father that he should come 
from his grave and bring him peace and for- 
giveness from the city of the gods. And lo ! 
amid the evening shadows, from the western 
wave uprising, landward floats the Fata Mor- 
gana, and, sinking down upon the spot where 
Balder’s temple once stood, assumes itself the 
form of a temple, with columns of dark blue 
steel, and an altar of precious stone. At the 
door, leaning upon their shields, stand the Des- 
tinies. And the Destiny of the Past points to 


II2 


Drift- Wood 


the solitude around, and the Destiny of the 
Future to a beautiful temple newly risen from 
the sea. While Frithiof gazes in wonder at 
the sight, all vanishes away, like a vision of 
the night. But the vision is interpreted by 
the hero without the aid of prophet or of sooth- 
sayer. 


XXIV 

Canto twenty-fourth is the Atonement. The 
temple of Balder has been rebuilt, and with 
such magnificence that the North beholds in 
it an image of Valhalla. And two by two, in 
solemn procession, walk therein the twelve 
virgins, clad in garments of silver tissue, with 
roses upon their cheeks,, and roses in their in- 
nocent hearts. They sing a solemn song of 
Balder, how much beloved he was by all that 
lived, and how he fell, by HodeFs arrow slain, 
and earth and sea and heaven wept. And the 
sound of the song is not like the sound of a 
human voice, but like the tones which come 
from the halls of the gods ; like the thoughts 
of a maiden dreaming of her lover, when the 
nightingale is singing in the midnight still- 
ness, and the moon shines over the beech- 
trees of the North. Frithiof listens to the 


Fritkiof's Saga 


113 

song ; and as he listens, all thoughts of ven- 
geance and of human hate melt within him, 
as the icy breastplate melts from the bosom of 
the fields when the sun shines in spring. At 
this moment the high-priest of Balder enters, 
venerable with his long, silver beard ; and, wel- 
coming the Viking to the temple he has built, 
he delivers for his special edification a long 
homily on things human and divine, with a 
short catechism of Northern mythology. He 
tells him, likewise, very truly, that more ac- 
ceptable to the gods than the smoke of burnt- 
offerings is the sacrifice of one’s own vindic- 
tive spirit, the hate of a human soul ; and then 
speaks of the Virgin’s Son, — 

“ Sent by All-father to declare aright the runes 
On Destiny’s black shield-rim, unexplained till now. 

Peace was his battle-cry, and his white sword was love, 

And innocence sat dove-like on his silver helm. 

Holy he lived and taught, he died and he forgave. 

And under distant palm-trees stands his grave in light 
His doctrine, it is said, wanders from dale to dale. 

Melting the hard of heart, and laying hand in hand, 

And builds the realm of Peace on the atoned earth. 

I do not know his lore aright, but darkly still 
In better hours I have presentiment thereof, 

And every human heart feeleth alike with mine. 

One day, that know I, shall it come, and lightly wave 
Its white and dove-like wingj over the Northern hills. 


Drift-Wood 


1 14 

But there shall be no more a North for us that day, 

And oaks shall whisper soft o’er the graves of the forgotten.” 

He then speaks of Frithiof’s hatred to 
Bele’s sons ; and tells him that Helge is dead, 
and that Halfdan sits alone on Bele’s throne, 
urging him at the same time to sacrifice to 
the gods his desire of vengeance, and proffer 
the hand of friendship to the young king. 
This is done straightway, Halfdan opportune- 
ly coming in at that moment ; and the priest 
removes forthwith the ban from the Varg-i- 
Veum, the sacrilegious and outlawed man. 
And then Ingeborg enters the vaulted temple, 
followed by maidens, as the moon is followed 
by stars in the vaulted sky ; and from the 
hand of her brother Frithiof receives the bride 
of his youth, and they are married in Balder’s 
temple. 

And here endeth the Legend of Frithiof the 
Valiant, the noblest poetic contribution which 
Sweden has yet made to the literary history of 
the world. 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


1837 

W HEN a new star rises in the heavens, 
people gaze after it for a season with 
the naked eye, and with such telescopes as 
they can find. In the stream of thought which 
flows so peacefully deep and clear through the 
pages of this book, we see the bright reflection 
of a spiritual star, after which men will be fain 
to gaze with the naked eye, and with the spy- 
glasses of criticism.'^ This star is but newly 
risen ; and erelong the observations of numer- 
ous star-gazers, perched upon arm-chairs and 
editors' tables, will inform the world of its 
magnitude and its place in the heaven of 
poetry, whether it be in the paw of the Great 
Bear, or on the forehead of Pegasus, or on the 
strings of the Lyre, or in the wing of the 
Eagle. My own observations are as follows. 

To this little work let us say, as was said to 
Sidney's Arcadia : “ Live ever, sweet, sweet 
book ! the simple image of his gentle wit, and 


ii6 


Drift- Wood 


the golden pillar of his noble courage; and 
ever notify unto the world that thy writer was 
the secretary of eloquence, the breath of the 
Muses, the honey-bee of the daintiest flowers 
of wit and art.” It comes from the hand of a 
man of genius. Everything about it has the 
freshness of morning and of May. These flow- 
ers and green leaves of poetry have not the 
dust of the highway upon them. They have 
been gathered fresh from the secret places of a 
peaceful and gentle heart. There flow deep 
waters, silent, calm, and cool ; and the green 
trees look into them and “ God’s blue heaven.” 

This book, though in prose, is written nev- 
ertheless by a poet. He looks upon all things 
in the spirit of love, and with lively sympa- 
thies ; for to him external form is but the rep- 
resentation of internal being, all things having 
a life, an end and aim. The true poet is a 
friendly man. He takes to his arms even 
cold and inanimate things, and rejoices in his 
heart, as did St. Francis of old, when he kissed 
his bride of snow. To his eye all things are 
beautiful and holy ; all are objects of feeling 
and of song, from the great hierarchy of the 
silent, saint-like stars, that rule the night, down 
to the little flowers which are “stars in the 
firmament of the earth.” 


Twice^ Told Tales 1 1 7 

It is one of the attributes of the poetic mind 
to feel a universal sympathy with Nature, both 
in the material world and in the soul of man. 
It identifies itself likewise with every object of 
its sympathy, giving it new sensation and poet- 
ic life, whatever that object may be, whether 
man, bird, beast, flower, or star. As to the 
pure mind all things are pure, so to the poetic 
mind all things are poetical. To such souls 
no age and no country can be utterly dull and 
prosaic. They make unto themselves their age 
and country; dwelling in the universal mind 
of man, and in the universal forms of things. 
Of such is the author of this book. 

There are many who think that the ages of 
poetry and romance are gone by. They look 
upon the Present as a dull, unrhymed, and 
prosaic translation of a brilliant and poetic 
Past. Their dreams are of the days of eld ; of 
the Dark Ages, the ages of Chivalry, and 
Bards, and Troubadours, and Minnesingers ; 
and the times of which Milton says : The 
villages also must have their visitors to inquire 
what lectures the bagpipe, and the rebbec 
reads even to the ballatry, and the gammuth 
of every municipal fiddler, for these are the 
countryman’s Arcadia and his Monte Mayors.” 


Drift- Wood 


ii8 

We all love ancient ballads. Pleasantly to 
all ears sounds the voice of the people in song, 
swelling fitfully through the desolate chambers 
of the Past like the wind of evening among 
ruins. And yet this voice does not persuade 
us that the days of balladry were more poetic 
than our own. The spirit of the Past pleads 
for itself, and the spirit of the Present likewise. 
If poetry be an element of the human mind, 
and consequently in accordance with nature 
and truth, it would be strange iiideed if, as the 
human mind advances, poetry should recede. 
The truth is, that, when we look back upon 
the Past, we see only its bright and poetic 
features. All that is dull, prosaic, and com- 
monplace, is lost in the shadowy distance. 
We see the moated castle on the hill, and, 

“ Golden and red, above it 
The clouds float gorgeously 

but we see not the valley below, where the 
patient bondman toils like a beast of burden. 
We see the tree-tops waving in the wind, and 
hear the merry birds singing under their green 
roofs ; but we forget that at their roots there 
are swine feeding upon acorns. With the 
Present it is not so. We stand too near to 
see objects in a picturesque light What to 


Twice-Told Tales 


1 19 

others, at a distance, is a bright and folded 
summer cloud, is to us, who are in it, a dismal, 
drizzling rain. Thus has it been since the 
world began. Ours is not the only Present 
which has seemed dull, commonplace, and 
prosaic. 

The truth is, the heaven of poetry and ro- 
mance still lies around us and within us. So 
long as truth is stranger than fiction, the ele- 
ments of poetry and romance will not be want- 
ing in common life. If, invisible ourselves, we 
could follow a single human being through a 
single day of his life, and know all his secret 
thoughts and hopes and anxieties, his prayers 
and tears and good resolves, his passionate 
delights and struggles against temptation, — 
all that excites, and all that soothes the heart 
of man, — we should have poetry enough to 
fill a volume. Nay, set the imagination free, 
like another bottle-imp, and bid it lift for you 
the roofs of the city, street by street, and after 
a single night’s observation you may sit down 
and write poetry and romance for the rest of 
your life. 

The Twice-Told Tales are so called from 
having been first published in various annuals 
and magazines, and now collected together and 


120 


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told a second time in a volume. And a very 
delightful volume they make ; — one of those 
which excite in you a feeling of personal inter- 
est for the author. A calm, thoughtful face 
seems to be looking at you from every page, 
with now a pleasant smile, and now a shade of 
sadness stealing over its features. Sometimes, 
though not often, it glares wildly at you, with 
a strange and painful expression, as, in the 
German romance, the bronze knocker of the 
Archivarius Lindhorst makes up faces at the 
Student Anselmus. 

One of the prominent characteristics of 
these tales is, that they are national in their 
character. The author has chosen his themes 
among the traditions of New England ; the 
dusty legends of the good old Colony times, 
when we lived under a king.'' This is the 
right material for story. It seems as natural 
to make tales out of old, tumble-down tradi- 
tions, as canes and snuff-boxes out of old 
steeples, or trees planted by great men. The 
dreary, old Puritanical times begin to look ro- 
mantic in the distance. Who would not like 
to have strolled through the city of Agamenti- 
cus, where a market was held every week, on 
Wednesday, and there were two annual fairs at 


Twice-Told Tales 


I2I 


St. James’s and St. Paul’s ? Who would not 
like to have been present at the court of the 
worshipful Thomas Gorges, in those palmy 
days of the law when Tom Heard was fined 
five shillings for being drunk, and John Payne 
the same, ‘Tor swearing one oath”.'^ Who 
would not like to have seen Thomas Taylor 
presented to the grand jury “for abusing Cap- 
tain Raynes, being in authority, by thee-ing 
and thou-ing him”; and John Warded like- 
wise, for denying Cambridge College to be an 
ordinance of God ; and people fined for wink- 
ing at comely damsels in church ; and others 
for being common sleepers there on the Lord’s 
day ? Truly, many quaint and quiet customs, 
many comic scenes and strange adventures, 
many wild and wondrous things, fit for humor- 
ous tale and soft, pathetic story, lie all about 
us here in New England. There is no tradi- 
tion of the Rhine nor of the Black Forest 
which surpasses in beauty that of the Phantom 
Ship of New Haven. The Flying Dutchman 
of the Cape, and the Klabotermann of the Bal- 
tic, are nowise superior. The story of Peter 
Rugg, the man who could not find Boston, is 
as good as that told by Gervasa of Tilbury, of 
a man who gave himself to the devils by an 


122 


Drift- Wood 


unfortunate imprecation, and was used by them 
as a wheelbarrow ; and the Great Carbuncle 
of the White Mountains shines with no less 
splendor than that which illuminated the sub- 
terranean palace in Rome, as related by Wil- 
liam of Malmesbury. 

Another characteristic of this writer is the 
exceeding beauty of his style. It is as clear 
as running waters. Indeed he uses words as 
mere stepping-stones, upon which, with a free 
and youthful bound, his spirit crosses and 
recrosses the bright and rushing stream of 
thought. Some writers of the present day 
have introduced a kind of Gothic architecture 
into their style. All is fantastic, vast, and 
wondrous in the outward form, and within is 
mysterious twilight, and the swelling sound 
of an organ, an5 a voice chanting hymns in 
Latin, which need a translation for many of 
the crowd. To this I do not object. Let the 
priest chant in what language he will, so long 
as he understands his own Mass-book. But if 
he wishes the world to listen and be edified, 
he will do well to choose a language that is 
generally understood. 


THE GREAT METROPOLIS 

1837 

I HAVE an affection for a great city. I 
feel safe in the neighborhood of man, and 
enjoy ‘‘the sweet security of streets.’’ The ex- 
citement of the crowd is pleasant to me. I find 
sermons in the stones of the pavement, and in 
the continuous sound of voices and wheels and 
footsteps hear the “sad music of humanity.” 
I feel that life is not a dream, but a reality ; — 
that the beings around me are not the insects 
of an hour, but the pilgrims of an eternity ; each 
with his history of thousand-fold occurrences, 
insignificant it may be to others, but all-impor- 
tant to himself; each with a human heart, 
whose fibres are woven into the great web of 
human sympathies ; and none so small that, 
when he dies, some of the mysterious meshes 
are not broken. The green earth, and the air, 
and the sea, all living and all lifeless things, 
preach the gospel of a good providence ; but 
most of all does man, in his crowded cities. 


124 


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and in his manifold powers and wants and pas- 
sions and deeds, preach this same gospel. The 
greatest works of his handicraft delight me 
hardly less than the greatest works of Nature. 
They are “ the masterpieces of her own master- 
piece.'' Architecture, and painting, and sculp- 
ture, and music, and epic poems, and all the 
forms of art, wherein the hand of genius is 
visible, please me evermore, for they conduct 
me into the fellowship of great minds. And 
thus my sympathies are with men, and streets, 
and city gates, and towers from which the great 
bells sound solemnly and slow, and cathedral 
doors, where venerable statues, holding books 
in their hands, look down like sentinels upon 
the church-going multitude, and the birds of 
the air come and build their nests in the arms 
of saints and apostles. 

And more than all this, in great cities we 
learn to look the world in the face. We shake 
hands with stern realities. We see ourselves 
in others. We become acquainted with the 
motley, many-sided life of man ; and finally 
learn, like Jean Paul, to ‘'look upon a metrop- 
olis as a collection of villages ; a village as 
some blind alley in a metropolis ; fame as the 
talk of neighbors at the street door ; a library 


The Great Metropolis 125 

as a learned conversation ; joy as a second ; 
sorrow as a minute ; life as a day ; and three 
things as all in all, God, Creation, Virtue.” 

Forty-five miles westward from the North 
Sea, in the lap of a broad and pleasant val- 
ley watered by the Thames, stands the Great 
Metropolis. It comprises the City of London 
and its Liberties, with the City and Liberties 
of Westminster, the Borough of Southwark, 
and upwards of thirty of the contiguous vil- 
lages of Middlesex and Surrey. East and 
west, its greatest length is about eight miles ; 
north and south, its greatest breadth about 
five ; its circumference, from twenty to thirty. 
Its population is estimated at two millions. 
The vast living tide goes thundering through 
its ten thousand streets in one unbroken roar. 
The noise of the great thoroughfares is deaf- 
ening. But you step aside into a by-lane, and 
anon you emerge into little green squares half 
filled with sunshine, half with shade, where no 
sound of living thing is heard, save the voice 
of a bird or a child, and amid solitude and si- 
lence you gaze in wonder at the great trees 
“growing in the heart of a brick-and-mortar 
wilderness.” Then there are the three parks, 
Hyde, Regent’s, and St. James’s, where you 


126 


Drift- Wood 


may lose yourself in green alleys, and dream 
you are in the country ; Westminster Abbey, 
with its tombs and solemn cloisters, where, 
with George Herbert, you may think that, 
‘‘when the bells do chime, 'tis angels’ music”; 
and high above all, half hidden in smoke and 
vapor, rises the dome of St Paul’s. 

These are a few of the more striking fea- 
tures of London. More striking still is the 
Thames. Above the town, by Kingston and 
Twickenham, it winds through groves and 
meadows green, a rural, silver stream. The 
traveller who sees it here for the first time 
can hardly believe that this is the mighty river 
which bathes the feet of London. He asks, 
perhaps, the coachman what stream it is ; and 
the coachman answers, with a stare of wonder 
and pity, “The Thames, sir.” Pleasure-boats 
are gliding back and forth, and stately swans 
float, like water-lilies, on its bosom. On its 
banks are villages and church towers, beneath 
which, among the patriarchs of the hamlet, lie 
many gifted sons of song, “in sepulchres un- 
hearsed and green.” 

In and below London the whole scene is 
changed. Let us view it by night. Lamps are 
gleaming along shore and on the bridges, and 


The Great Metropolis 


127 


a full moon rising over the Borough of South- 
wark. The moonbeams silver the rippling, 
yellow tide, wherein also flare the shore lamps 
with a lambent, flickering gleam. Barges and 
wherries move to and fro ; and heavy-laden 
luggers are sweeping up stream with the ris- 
ing tide, swinging sideways, with loose, flap- 
ping sails. Both sides of the river are crowded 
with sea and river craft, whose black hulks lie 
in shadow, and whose tapering masts rise up 
into the moonlight. A distant sound of music 
floats on the air ; a harp, and a flute, and a 
horn. It has an unearthly sound ; and lo ! 
like a shooting star, a light comes gliding on. 
It is a signal-lamp at the mast-head of a steam- 
vessel, that flits by, cloud-like and indistinct. 
And from all this scene goes up a sound of 
human voices, — curses, laughter, and singing, 
^mingled with the monotonous roar of the 
city, “ the clashing and careering streams of 
life, hurrying to lose themselves in the imper- 
vious gloom of eternity.” 

And now the midnight is past, and amid the 
general silence the clock strikes, — one, two. 
Far distant, from some belfry in the suburbs, 
comes the first sound, so indistinct as hard- 
ly to be distinguished from the crowing of a 
cock. Then, close at hand, the great bell of 


128 


Drift- Wood 


St. Paul’s, with a heavy, solemn sound, — one, 
two. It is answered from Southwark ; then at 
a distance like an echo ; and then all around 
you, with various and intermingling clang, 
like a chime of bells, the clocks from a hun- 
dred belfries strike the hour. But the moon is 
already sinking, large and fiery, through the 
vapors of morning. It is just in the range of 
the chimneys and house-tops, and seems to 
follow you with speed as you float down the 
river between unbroken ranks of ships. Day 
is dawning in the east, not with a pale streak 
in the horizon, but with a silver light spread 
through the sky almost to the zenith. It is 
the mingling of moonlight and daylight. The 
water is tinged with a green hue, melting into 
purple and gold, like the brilliant scales of 
a fish. The air grows cool. It comes fresh 
from the eastern sea, toward which we are 
swiftly gliding ; and, dimly seen in the uncer- 
tain twilight, behind us rises 

“A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, 

Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye 
Can reach ; with here and there a sail just skipping 
In sight, then lost amid the forestry 
Of masts ; a wilderness of steeples peeping. 

On tiptoe, through their sea-coal canopy ; 

A huge dun cupola, like a foors-cap crown 
On a fool’s head ; — and there is London town. ” 


ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE 


1838 



E read in history, that the beauty of an 


^ ^ ancient manuscript tempted King Al- 
fred, when a boy at his mother’s knee, to learn 
the letters of the Saxon tongue. A volume 
which that monarch minstrel wrote in after 
years now lies before me, so beautifully print- 
ed, that it might tempt any one to learn not 
only the letters of the Saxon language, but the 
language also. The monarch himself is look- 
ing from the ornamented initial letter of the 
first chapter. He is crowned and care-worn ; 
having a beard, and long flowing locks, and 
a face of majesty. He seems to have just 
uttered those remarkable words, with which 
his Preface closes : And now he prays, and 
for God’s name implores, every one of those 
whom it lists to read this book, that he would 
pray for him, and not blame him, if he more 
rightly understand it than he could ; for every 
man must, according to the measure of his 


130 


Drift- Wood 


understanding, and according to his leisure, 
speak that which he speaketh, and do that 
which he doeth.” 

I would fain hope, that the beauty of this 
and otuer Anglo-Saxon books may lead many 
to the study of that venerable language. 
Through such gateways will they pass, it is 
true, into no gay palace of song ; but among 
the dark chambers and mouldering walls of 
an old national literature, weather-stained and 
in ruins. They will find, however, venerable 
names recorded on those walls ; and inscrip- 
tions, worth the trouble of deciphering. To 
point out the most curious and important of 
these is my present purpose ; and according 
to the measure of my understanding, and ac- 
cording to my leisure, I speak that which I 
speak. 

The Anglo-Saxon language was the lan- 
guage of our Saxon forefathers in England, 
though they never gave it that name. They 
called it English. Thus King Alfred speaks 
of translating from book-Latin into English’" ; 
Abbot ^Ifric was requested by ^thelward 
to translate the book of Genesis from Latin 
into English”; and Bishop Leofric, speaking 
of the manuscript he gave to the Exeter Ca- 


Anglo-Saxon Literature 13 1 

thedral, calls it ‘‘ a great English book.” In 
other words, it is the old Saxon, a Gothic 
tongue, as spoken and developed in England. 
That it was spoken and written uniformly 
throughout the land is not to be imagined, 
when we know that Jutes and Angles were 
in the country as well as Saxons. But that 
it was essentially the same language every- 
where is not to be doubted, when we compare 
pure West-Saxon texts with Northumbrian 
glosses and books of Durham. Hickes speaks 
of a Dano-Saxon period in the history of the 
language. The Saxon kings reigned six hun- 
dred years ; the Danish dynasty, twenty only. 
And neither the Danish boors, who were 
earthlings in the country, nor the Danish sol- 
^ diers, who were dandies at the court of King 
Canute, could, in the brief space of twenty 
years, have so overlaid or interlarded the pure 
Anglo-Saxon with their provincialisms, as to 
give it a new character, and thus form a new 
period in its history, as was afterwards done 
by the Normans. 

The Dano-Saxon is a dialect of the lan- 
guage, not a period which was passed through 
in its history. Down to the time of the Nor- 
man Conquest, it existed in the form of two 


132 


Drift- Wood 


principal dialects ; namely, the Anglo-Saxon 
in the South ; and the Dano-Saxon, or Nor- 
thumbrian, in the North. After the Norman 
Conquest, the language assumed a new form, 
which has been called, properly enough, Nor- 
man-Saxon and Semi-Saxon. 

This form of the language, ever flowing 
and filtering through the roots of national 
feeling, custom, and prejudice, prevailed about 
two hundred years ; that is, from the middle 
of the eleventh to the middle of the thirteenth 
century, when it became English. It is im- 
possible to fix the landmarks of a language 
with any great precision ; but only floating 
beacons, here and there. 

It is oftentimes curious to consider the far-off 
beginnings of great events, and to study the^ 
aspect of the cloud no bigger than one’s hand. 
The British peasant looked seaward from his 
harvest-field, and saw, with wondering eyes, 
the piratical schooner of a Saxon Viking mak- 
ing for the mouth of the Thames. A few 
years — only a few years — afterward, while 
the same peasant, driven from his homestead 
north or west, still lives to tell the story to his 
grandchildren, another race lords it over the 
land, speaking a different language and living 


Anglo-Saxon Literature 


133 


under different laws. This important event 
in his history is more important in the world’s 
history. Thus began the reign of the Saxons 
in England ; and the downfall of one nation, 
and the rise of another, seem to us at this dis- 
tance only the catastrophe of a stage-play. 

The Saxons came into England about the 
middle of the fifth century. They were pa- 
gans ; they were a wild and warlike people ; 
brave, rejoicing in sea-storms, and beautiful in 
person, with blue eyes, and long, flowing hair. 
Their warriors wore their shields suspended 
from their necks by chains. Their horsemen 
were armed with iron sledge-hammers. Their 
priests rode upon mares, and carried into the 
battle-field an image of the god Irminsula ; 
in figure like an armed man ; his helmet 
crested with a cock ; in his right hand a 
banner, emblazoned with a red rose ; a bear 
carved upon his breast ; and, hanging from 
his shoulders, a shield, on which was a lion in 
a field of flowers. 

Not two centuries elapsed before this whole 
people was converted to Christianity. .^Ifric, 
in his homily on the birthday of St. Gregory, 
informs us, that this conversion was accom- 
plished by the holy wishes of that good man. 


134 


Drift- Wood 


and the holy works of St. Augustine and other 
monks. St. Gregory, beholding one day certain 
slaves set for sale in the market-place of Rome, 
who were men of fair countenance and nobly- 
haired,’' and learning that they were heathens, 
and called Angles, heaved a long sigh, and 
said : ‘‘ Well-away ! that men of so fair a hue 
should be subjected to the swarthy Devil! 
Rightly are they called Angles, for they have 
angels’ beauty ; and therefore it is fit that 
they in heaven should be companions of an- 
gels.” As soon, therefore, as he undertook 
the popehood, the monks were sent to their 
beloved work. In the Witena Gemot, or As- 
sembly of the Wise, convened by King Edwin 
of Northumbria to consider the propriety of 
receiving the Christian faith, a Saxon Ealdor- 
man arose, and spoke these noble words : 
‘^Thus seemeth to me, O king, this present 
life of man upon earth, compared with the 
time which is unknown to us ; even as if you 
were sitting at a feast, amid your Ealdorman 
and Thegns in winter-time. And the fire is 
lighted, and the hall warmed, and it rains and 
snows and storms without. Then cometh a 
sparrow, and flieth about the hall. It cometh 
in at one door, and goeth out at another 


A nglo-Saxon L iterature 1 3 5 

While it is within, it is . not touched by the 
winter’s storm ; but that is only for a moment, 
only for the least space. Out of the winter it 
Cometh, to return again into the winter eftsoon. 
So also this life of man endureth for a ‘little 
space. What goeth before it and what fol- 
loweth after, we know not. Wherefore, if this 
new lore bring aught more certain and more 
advantageous, then is it worthy that we should 
follow it.” 

Thus the Anglo-Saxons became Christians. 
For the good of their souls they built monas- 
teries and went on pilgrimages to Rome. The 
whole country, to use Malmesbury’s phrase, 
was “ glorious and refulgent with relics.” The 
priests sang psalms night and day ; and so 
great was the piety of St. Cuthbert, that, ac- 
cording to Bede, he forgot to take off his shoes 
for months together, — sometimes the whole 
year round ; — from which Mr. Turner infers, 
that he had no stockings.* They also copied 
the Evangelists, and illustrated them with illu- 
minations ; in one of which St. John is rep- 
resented in a pea-green dress with red stripes. 
They also drank ale out of buffalo horns and 
wooden - knobbed goblets. A Mercian king 

* History of the Anglo-Saxons, VoL II. p. 6i. 


136 


Drift -Wood 


gave to the Monastery of Croyland his great 
drinking-horn, that the elder monks might 
drink therefrom at festivals, and “in their 
benedictions remember sometimes the soul ol 
the donor, Witlaf” They drank his health, 
^with that of Christ, the Virgin Mary, the apos- 
tles, and other saints. Malmesbury says, that 
excessive drinking was the common vice of all 
ranks of people. King Hardicanute died in a 
revel, and King Edmund in a drunken brawl 
at Pucklechurch, being, with all his court, 
much overtaken by liquor, at the festival of 
St. Augustine. Thus did mankind go reeling 
through the Dark Ages ; quarrelling, drink- 
ing, hunting, hawking, singing psalms, wear- 
ing breeches,* grinding in mills, eating hot 
bread, rocked in cradles, buried in coffins, — 
weak, suffering, sublime. Well might King 
Alfred exclaim, “ Maker of all creatures ! help 
now thy miserable mankind.” 

A national literature is a subject which 
should always be approached with reverence. 
It is difficult to comprehend fully the mind of 
a nation ; even when that nation still lives, 

* In an old Anglo-Saxon dialogue, a shoemaker says that 
he makes “ slippers, shoes, and leather breeches ” (swyfUerat 
sceos, and lether-hose. ) 


Anglo-Saxon Literature 137 

and we can visit it, and its present history, 
and the lives of men we know, help us to a 
comment on the written text. But here the 
dead alone speak. Voices, half understood ; 
fragments of song, ending abruptly, as if the 
poet had sung no further, but died with these 
last words upon his lips ; homilies, preached to 
congregations that have been asleep for many 
centuries ; lives of saints, who went to their re- 
ward long before the world began to scoff at 
sainthood ; and wonderful legends, once be- 
lieved by men, and now, in this age of wise 
children, hardly credible enough for a nurse’s 
tale ; nothing entire, nothing wholly under- 
stood, and no further comment or illustration 
than may be drawn from an isolated fact found 
in an old chronicle, or perchance a rude illu- 
mination in an old manuscript ! Such is the 
literature we have now to consider. Such 
fragments, and mutilated remains, has the hu- 
man mind left of itself, coming down through 
the times of old, step by step, and every step 
a century. Old men and venerable accom- 
pany us through the Past ; and put into our 
hands, at parting, such written records of 
themselves as they have. We should re- 
ceive these things with reverence. We should 
respect old age. 


138 


Drift- Wood 


“ This leaf, is it not blown about by the wind ? 

Woe to it for its fate ! — Alas ! it is old/’ 

What an Anglo-Saxon glee-man was, we 
know from such commentaries as are men- 
tioned above. King Edgar forbade the monks 
to be ale-poets ; and one of his accusations 
against the clergy of his day was, that they 
entertained glee-men in their monasteries, 
where they had dicing, dancing, and singing, 
till midnight. The illumination of an old 
manuscript shows how a glee-man looked. 
It is a frontispiece to the Psalms of David. 
The great Psalmist sits upon his throne, with 
a harp in his hand, and his masters of sacred 
song around him. Below stands the glee- 
man, throwing three balls and three knives 
alternately into the air, and catching them as 
they fall, like a modern juggler. But all the 
Anglo-Saxon poets were not glee-men. All 
the harpers were not dancers. The Sceop, 
the creator, the poet, rose, at times, to higher 
themes. He sang the deeds of heroes, victo- 
rious odes, death-songs, epic poems ; or, sitting 
in cloisters, and afar from these things, con- 
verted holy writ into Saxon chimes. 

The first thing which strikes the reader o} 
Anglo-Saxon poetry is the structure of the 


Anglo-Saxon Literature 139 

verse ; the short exclamatory lines, whose 
rhythm depends on alliteration in the emphatic 
syllables, and to which the general omission 
of the particles gives great energy and vi- 
vacity. Though alliteration predominates in 
all Anglo-Saxon poetry, rhyme is not wholly 
wanting. It had line-rhymes and final rhymes ; 
which, being added to the alliteration, and 
brought so near together in the short, em- 
phatic lines, produce a singular effect upon 
the ear. They ring like blows of hammers 
on an anvil. For example : — 

“ Flah mah fliteth, 

' Flan man hwiteth, 

Burg sorg biteth, 

Bald aid thwiteth, 

Wraec-faec writheth, 

Wrath ath smiteth.” * 

Other peculiarities of Anglo-Saxon poetry, 
which cannot escape the reader’s attention, 
are its frequent inversions, its bold transi- 
tions, and abundant metaphors. These are 

* “ Strong dart flitteth, 

Spear-man whetteth, 

Care the city biteth, 

Age the bold quelleth, 

Vengeance prevaileth, 

Wrath a town smiteth.’^ 


140 


Drift- Wood 


the things which render Anglo-Saxon poetry 
so much more difficult than Anglo-Saxon 
prose. But upon these points I need not en- 
large. It is enough to allude to them. 

One of the oldest and most important re- 
mains of Anglo-Saxon literature is the epic 
poem of Beowulf. Its age is unknown ; but 
it comes from a very distant and hoar antiq- 
uity ; somewhere between the seventh and 
tenth centuries. It is like a piece of ancient 
armor; rusty and battered, and yet strong. 
From within comes a voice sepulchral, as 
if the ancient armor .spoke, telling a sim- 
ple, straightforward narrative ; with here and 
there the boastful speech of a rough old 
Dane, reminding one of those made by the 
heroes of Homer. The style, likewise, is sim- 
ple, — perhaps one should say austere. The 
bold metaphors, which characterize nearly all 
the Anglo-Saxon poems, are for the most part 
wanting in this. The author seems mainly 
bent upon telling us, how his Sea-Goth slew 
the Grendel and the Fire-drake. He is too 
much in earnest to multiply epithets and gor- 
geous figures. At times he is tedious, at times 
obscure ; and he who undertakes to read the 
original will find it no easy task. 


Anglo-Saxon Literature 14 1 

The poem begins with a description of King 
Hrothgar the Scylding, in his great hall of 
Heort, which re-echoed with the sound of 
harp and song. But not far off, in the fens 
and marshes of Jutland, dwelt a grim and 
monstrous giant, called Grendel, a descendant 
of Cain. This troublesome individual was in 
the habit of occasionally visiting the Scylding’s 
palace by night, to see, as the author rather 
quaintly says, “ how the doughty Danes found 
themselves after their beer-carouse.'’ On his 
first visit he destroyed some thirty inmates, 
all asleep, with beer in their brains ; and ever 
afterwards kept the whole land in fear of death. 
At length the fame of these evil deeds reached 
the ears of Beowulf, the Thane of Higelac, a 
famous Viking in those days, who had slain 
sea-monsters, and wore a wild-boar for his 
crest. Straightway he sailed with fifteen fol- 
lowers for the court of Heort ; unarmed, in 
the great mead-hall, and at midnight, fought 
the Grendel, tore off one of his arms, and hung 
it up on the palace wall as a curiosity ; the 
fiend’s fingers being armed with long nails, 
which the author calls the hand-spurs of 
the heathen hero. Retreating to his cave, 
the grim ghost departed this life ; whereat 


142 


Drift- Wood 


there was great carousing at Heort. But at 
night came the Grendel’s mother, and car- 
ried away one of the beer-drunken heroes of 
the ale-wassail. Beowulf, with a great escort, 
pursued her to the fenlands of the Grendel ; 
plunged, all armed, into a dark-rolling and 
dreary river, that flowed from the monster’s 
cavern ; slew worms and dragons manifold ; 
was dragged to the bottom by the old-wife ; 
and seizing a magic sword, which lay among 
the treasures of that realm of wonders, with 
one fell blow let her heathen soul out of its 
bone-house. Having thus freed the land from 
the giants, Beowulf, laden with gifts and treas- 
ures, departed homeward, as if nothing special 
had happened, and, after the death of King 
Higelac, ascended the throne of the Scylfings. 
Here the poem should end, and we doubt not, 
did originally end. But, as it has come down 
to us, eleven more cantos follow, containing a 
new series of adventures. Beowulf has grown 
old. He has reigned fifty years ; and now, in 
his gray old age, is troubled -by the devasta- 
tions of a monstrous Fire-drake, so that his 
metropolis is beleaguered, and he can no longer 
fly his hawks and merles in the open country. 
He resolves, at length, to fight with this Fire- 


A nglo-Saxon L iterature 1 43 

drake ; and, with the help of his attendant, 
Wiglaf, overcomes him. The land is made 
rich by the treasures found in the dragon's 
cave ; but Beowulf dies of his wounds. 

Thus departs Beowulf, the Sea-Goth ; of the 
world-kings the mildest to men, the strongest 
of hand, the most clement to his people, the 
most desirous of glory. And thus closes the 
oldest epic in any modern language ; written 
in forty-three cantos of some six thousand 
lines. The outline here given is filled up 
with abundant episodes and warlike details. 
We have ale-revels, and giving of bracelets, and 
presents of mares, and songs of bards. The 
battles with the Grendel and the Fire-drake 
are minutely described ; as likewise are the 
dwellings and rich treasure-houses of these 
monsters. The fire-stream flows with lurid 
light ; the dragon breathes out flame and pesti- 
lential breath ; the gigantic sword, forged by 
the Jutes of old, dissolves and thaws like an 
icicle in the hero’s grasp ; and the swart raven 
tells the eagle how he fared with the fell wolf 
at the death-feast. Such is, in brief, the ma- 
chinery of the poem. It possesses great epic 
merit, and in parts is strikingly graphic in its 
descriptions. As we read, we can almost smell 


144 


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the brine, and hear the sea-breeze blow, and 
see the mainland stretch out its jutting promon- 
tories, those sea-noses, as the poet calls them, 
into the blue waters of the solemn ocean. 

The next work to which I would call the 
attention of my readers is very remarkable, 
both in a philological and in a poetical point 
of view ; being written in a more ambitious 
style than Beowulf It is Caedmon’s Para- 
phrase of Portions of Holy Writ. C^dmon 
was a monk in the Minster of Whitby. He 
lived and died in the seventh century. The 
only account we have of his life is that given 
by the Venerable Bede in his Ecclesiastical 
History. 

By some he is called the Father of Anglo- 
Saxon Poetry, because his name stands first 
in the history of Saxon song-craft ; by others, 
the Milton of our Forefathers ; because he 
sang of Lucifer and the Loss of Paradise. 

The poem is divided into two books. The 
first is nearly complete, and contains a para- 
phrase of parts of the Old Testament and the 
Apocrypha. The second is so mutilated as 
to be only a series of unconnected fragments. 
It contains scenes from the New Testament, 
and is chiefly occupied with Christ’s descent 


A nglo-Saxon L iterature 1 45 

into the lower regions ; a favorite theme in 
old times, and well known in the history of 
miracle-plays, as the Harrowing of Hell. The 
author is a pious, prayerful monk ; an awful, 
reverend, and religious man.’' He has all the 
simplicity of a child. He calls his Creator 
the Blithe-heart King : the patriarchs, Earls ; 
and their children. Noblemen. Abraham is a 
wise-heedy man, a guardian of bracelets, a 
mighty earl ; and his wife Sarah, a woman of 
elfin beauty. The sons of Reuben are called 
Sea-Pirates. A laugher is a laughter-smith ; 
the Ethiopians, a people brown with the hot 
coals of heaven. 

Striking poetic epithets and passages are 
not wanting in his works. They are sprin- 
kled here and there throughout the narrative. 
The sky is called the roof of nations, the roof 
adorned with stars. After the overthrow of 
Pharaoh and his folk, he says, the blue air 
was with corruption tainted, and the bursting 
ocean whooped a bloody storm. Nebuchad- 
pezzar is described as a naked, unwilling wan- 
derer, a wondrous wretch and weedless. Hor- 
rid ghosts, swart and sinful, 

“ Wide through windy halls 
Wail woful.” 


146 


Drift- Wood 


And, in the sack of Sodom, we are told how 
many a fearful, pale-faced damsel must trem- 
bling go into a stranger’s embrace ; and how 
fell the defenders of brides and bracelets, sick 
with wounds. Indeed, whenever the author 
has a battle to describe, and hosts of arm- 
bearing and warfaring men draw from their 
sheaths the ring-hilted sword of edges doughty, 
he enters into the matter with so much spirit, 
that one almost imagines he sees, looking 
from under that monkish cowl, the visage of 
no parish priest, but of a grim war-wolf, as 
the great fighters were called, in the days 
when Caedmon wrote. 

Such are the two great narrative poems of 
the Anglo-Saxon tongue. Of a third, a short 
fragment remains. It is a mutilated thing, a 
mere torso. Judith of the Apocrypha is the 
heroine. The part preserved describes the 
death of Holofernes in a fine, brilliant style, 
delighting the hearts of all Anglo-Saxon schol- 
ars. But a more important fragment is that 
on the Death of Byrhtnoth at the battle of 
Maldon. It savors of rust and of antiquity, 
like “ Old Hildebrand ” in German. What a 
fine passage is this, spoken by an aged vassal 
over the dead body of the hero, in the thickest 
of the fight ! 


Anglo-Saxon Literature 147 

‘‘ Byrhtwold spoke ; he was an aged vassal ; he 
raised his shield ; he brandished his ashen spear ; 
he full boldly exhorted the warriors. ‘ Our spirit 
shall be the hardier, our heart shall be the keener, 
our soul shall be the greater, the more our forces 
diminish. Here lieth our chief all mangled ; the 
brave one in the dust ; ever may he lament his 
shame that thinketh to fly from this play of weap- 
ons ! Old am I in life, yet will I not stir hence ; 
but I think to lie by the side of my lord, by that 
much-loved man ! ’ ” 

Shorter than either of these fragments is a 
third on the Fight of Finsborough. Its chief 
value seems to be, that it relates to the same 
action which formed the theme of one of 
Hrothgar’s bards in Beowulf. In addition to 
these narrative poems and fragments, there 
are two others, founded on lives of saints. 
They are the Life and Passion of St. Juliana, 
and the Visions of the Hermit Guthlac. 

. There is another narrative poem, which I 
must mention here on account of its subject, 
though of a much later date than the fore- 
going. It is the Chronicle of King Lear and 
his daughters, in Norman-Saxon ; not rhymed 
throughout, but with rhymes too often recur- 
ring to be accidental. As a poem, it has no 


148 


Drift-Wood 


merit, but shows that the story of Lear is very 
old : for, in speaking of the old king’s death 
and burial, it refers to a previous account, as 
the book telleth.” Cordelia is married to 
Aganippus, king of France ; and, after his 
death, reigns over England, though Maglau- 
dus, king of Scotland, declares, that it is a 
muckle shame, that a queen should be king 
in the land.” * 

Besides these long, elaborate poems, the 
Anglo-Saxons had their odes and ballads. 
Thus, when King Canute was sailing by the 
Abbey of Ely, he heard the voices of the 
monks chanting their vesper hymn. Where- 
upon he sang, in the best Anglo-Saxon he was 
master of, the following rhyme : — 

“ Merie sungen the muneches binnen Ely, 

Tha Cnut ching reuther by ; 

Roweth, cnihtes, noer the land, 

And here we thes muneches sang.” f 

* For hit was swithe mochel same, 
and eke hit was mochel grame, 
that a cwene solde 
be king in thisse land. 

t Merry sang the monks in Ely, 

As King Canute was steering by ; 

Row, ye knights, near the land. 

And hear we these monks’ song. 


Ang-lo-Saxon Literature 149 

The best, and, properly speaking, perhaps 
the only, Anglo-Saxon odes, are those pre- 
served in the Saxon Chronicle, in recording 
the events they celebrate. They are five in 
number ; — .^Ethelstan’s Victory at Brunan- 
burh ; the Victories of Edmund .^Etheling ; 
the Coronation of King Edgar ; the Death of 
King Edgar ; and the Death of King Edward. 
The Battle of Brunanburh is already pretty 
well known by the numerous English versions, 
and attempts thereat, which have been given 
of it. This ode is one of the most character- 
istic specimens of Anglo-Saxon poetry. What 
a striking picture is that of the lad with flaxen 
hair, mangled with wounds ; and of the seven 
earls of Anlaf, and the five young kings, lying 
on the battle-field, lulled asleep by the sword ! 
Indeed, the whole ode is striking, bold, graphic. 
The furious onslaught ; the cleaving of the wall 
of shields ; the hewing down of banners ; the 
din of the fight : the hard hand-play ; the re- 
treat of the Northmen, in nailed ships, over 
the stormy sea ; and the deserted dead, on the 
battle-ground, left to the swart raven, the war- 
hawk, and the wolf ; — all these images appeal 
strongly to the imagination. The bard has 
nobly described this victory of the illustrious 


150 


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war-smiths, the most signal victory since the 
coming of the Saxons into England ; so say 
the books of the old wise men. 

And here I would make due and honorable 
mention of the Poetic Calendar, and of King 
Alfred’s Version of the Metres of Boethius. 
The Poetic Calendar is a chronicle of great 
events in the lives of saints, martyrs, and apos- 
tles, referred to the days on which they took 
place. At the end is a strange poem, consist- 
ing of a series of aphorisms, not unlike those 
that adorn a modern almanac. 

In addition to these narratives and odes 
and didactic poems, there are numerous mi- 
nor poems on various subjects, some of which 
have been published, though for the most 
part they still lie buried in manuscripts, — • 
hymns, allegories, doxologies, proverbs, enig- 
mas, paraphrases of the Lord’s Prayer, poems 
on Death and the Day of Judgment, and the 
like. A large quantity of them is contained 
in the celebrated Exeter Manuscript, — a folio 
given by Bishop Leofric to the Cathedral ot 
Exeter in the eleventh century, and called by 
tl^e donor, ‘‘ a great English book about every- 
thing, composed in verse.” Among them is 
a very singular and striking poem, entitled, 


Anglo-Saxon Literature 15 1 

“ The Soul’s Complaint against the Body,” in 
which the departed spirit is described as re- 
turning, ghastly and shrieking, to upbraid the 
body it had left. 

“ Much it behoveth 
Each one of mortals, 

That he his soul’s journey 
In himself ponder, 

How deep it may be. 

When Death cometh. 

The bonds he breaketh 
By which were united 
The soul and the body. 

“ Long it is thenceforth 
Ere the soul taketh 
From God himself 
Its woe or its weal ; 

As in the world erst. 

Even in its earth-vessel. 

It yrrought before. 

“ The soul shall come 
Wailing with loud voice, 

After a sennight. 

The soul, to find 
The body 

That it erst dwelt in ; — 

Three hundred winters. 

Unless ere that worketh 
The Eternal Lord, 

The Almighty God, 

The end of the world. 


152 


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“Crieth then, so care-worn, 

With cold utterance, 

And speaketh grimly. 

The ghost to the dust : 

‘ Dry dust ! thou dreary one ! 

How little didst thou labor for me ! 

In the foulness of earth 
Thou all wearest away 
Like to the loam ! 

Little didst thou think 
How thy soul’s journey 
Would be thereafter. 

When from the body 
It should be led forth. ’ ” 

But perhaps the most curious poem in the 
Exeter Manuscript is the Rhyming Poem, to 
which I have before alluded.* 

Still more spectral is the following Nor- 
man-Saxon poem, from a manuscript volume 
of Homilies in the Bodleian Library. The 
subject is the grave. It is Death that speaks. 

“For thee was a house built 
Ere thou wast born ; 

For thee was a mould meant 
Ere thou of mother earnest 
But it is not made ready. 

Nor its depth measured. 

Nor is it seen 

* Since this paper was written, the Exeter Manuscript has 
been published, with a translation by Mr. Thorpe. 


Anglo-Saxon Literature 


iS3 


How long it shall be. 

Now I bring thee 
Where thou shalt be. 

Now I shall measure thee, 
And the mould afterwards. 

‘‘ Thy house is not 
Highly timbered ; 

It is unhigh and low, 

When thou art therein. 

The heel-ways are low. 

The side-ways unhigh ; 

The roof is built 
Thy breast full nigh. 

So thou shalt in mould 
Dwell full cold, 

Dimly and dark. 

‘‘ Doorless is that house. 

And dark it is within ; 

There thou art fast detained. 
And Death hath the key. 
Loathsome is that earth-house. 
And grim within to dwell ; 
There thou shalt dwell, 

And worms shall divide thee. 

Thus thou art laid 
And leaves! thy friends ; 

Thou hast no friend 
Who will come to thee. 

Who will ever see 

How that house pleaseth thee, 

Who will ever open 


154 


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The door for thee, 

And descend after thee ; 

For soon thou art loathsome 
And hateful to see. ” 

We now come to Anglo-Saxon Prose. At 
the very boundary stand two great works, like 
landmarks. These are the Saxon Laws, pro- 
mulgated by the various kings that ruled the 
land ; and the Saxon Chronicle, in which all 
great historic events, from the middle of the 
fifth to the middle of the twelfth century, are 
recorded by contemporary writers, mainly, it 
would seem, the monks of Winchester,, Peter- 
borough, and Canterbury.* Setting these 
aside, doubtless the most important remains 
of Anglo-Saxon prose are the writings of 
King Alfred the Great. 

What a sublime old character was King 
Alfred ! Alfred, the Truth-teller ! Thus the 
ancient historian surnamed him, as others 

* The style of this Chronicle rises at times far above that 
of most monkish historians. For instance, in recording the 
death of William the Conqueror, the writer says : “ Sharp 
Death, that passes by neither rich men nor poor, seized him 
also. Alas ! how false and how uncertain is this world’s 
weal ! He that was before a rich king, and lord of many 
lands, had not then of all his land more than a space of seven 
feet ! and he that was whilom enshrouded in gold and gems 
lay there covered with mould.” A. D. 1087. 


A nglo-Saxon L iterature 1 5 S 

were surnamed the Unready, Ironside, Hare- 
foot. The principal events of his life are 
known to all men ; — the nine battles fought 
in the first year of his reign ; his flight to the 
marshes and forests of Somersetshire ; his 
poverty and suffering, wherein was fulfilled 
the prophecy of St. Neot, that he should ‘'be 
bruised like the ears of wheat”; his life with 
the swineherd, whose wife bade him turn the 
cakes, that they might not be burnt, for she 
saw daily that he was a great eater ; his suc- 
cessful rally ; his victories, and his future glo- 
rious reign ; — these things are known to all 
men. And not only these, which are events 
in his life, but also many more, which are traits 
in his character, and controlled events ; as, for 
example, that he was a wise and virtuous man, 
a religious man, a learned man for that age. 
Perhaps they know, even, how he measured 
time with his six horn lanterns ; also, that he 
was an author and wrote many books. But of 
these books how few persons have read even 
a single line ! And yet it is well worth our 
while, if we wish to see all the calm dignity of 
that great man's character, and how in him 
the scholar and the man outshone the king. 
For example, do we not know him better, and 


Drift- Wood 


156 

honor him more, when we hear from his own 
lips, as it were, such sentiments as these ? 
“ God has made all men equally noble in their 
original nature. True nobility is in the mind, 
not in the flesh. I wished to live honorably 
whilst I lived, and, after my life, to leave to 
the men who were after me my memory in 
good works ! ” 

The chief writings of this royal author 
are his translations of Gregory’s Pastoralis, 
Boethius’s Consolations of Philosophy, Bede’s 
Ecclesiastical History, and the History of 
Orosius, known in manuscripts by the myste- 
rious title of Hormesta. Of these works the 
most remarkable is the Boethius ; so much of 
his own mind has Alfred infused into it. 
Properly speaking, it is not so much a trans- 
lation as a gloss or paraphrase ; for the Saxon 
king, upon his throne, had a soul which was 
near akin to that of the last of the Roman 
.philosophers in his prison. He had suffered, 
and could sympathize with suffering human- 
ity. He adorned and carried out still further 
the reflections of Boethius. He begins his 
task, however, with an apology, saying, “Al- 
fred, king, was translator of this book, and 
turned it from book-Latin into English, as he 


Anglo-Saxon Literature 157 

most plainly and clearly could, amid the vari- 
ous and manifold worldly occupations which 
often busied him in mind and body ” ; and 
ends with a prayer, beseeching God, “ by the 
sign of the holy cross, and by the virginity of 
the blessed Mary, and by the obedience of the 
blessed Michael, and by the love of all the 
saints and their merits,” that his mind might 
be made steadfast to the Divine will and his 
own soul’s need. 

Other remains of Anglo-Saxon prose exist 
in the tale of Apollonius of Tyre ; the Bible- 
translations and Colloquies of Abbott ^Ifric ; 
Glosses of the Gospels, at the close of one 
of which the conscientious scribe has written, 
“ Aldred, an unworthy and miserable priest, 
with the help of God and St. Cuthbert, over- 
glossed it in English ” ; and, finally, various 
miscellaneous treatises, among which the most 
curious is a Dialogue between Saturn and 
Solomon. I cannot refrain from giving a few 
extracts from this very original and curious 
document, which bears upon it some of the 
darkest thumb-marks of the Middle Ages. 

“ Tell me, what man first spake with a dog? 

“ I tell thee. Saint Peter. 


Drift-Wood 

‘‘ Tell me, what man first ploughed the earth 
with a plough r 

‘‘ I tell thee, it was Ham, the son of Noah. 

‘‘ Tell me, wherefore stones are barren ? 

“I tell thee, because Abel’s blood fell upon a 
stone, when Cain his brother slew him with the 
jawbone of an ass. 

‘‘ Tell me, what made the sea salt? 

I tell thee, the ten commandments that Moses 
collected in the old law, — the commandments of 
God. He threw the ten commandments into the 
sea, and he shed tears into the sea, and the sea be- 
came salt. 

“ Tell me, what man first built a monastery? 

“ I tell thee, Elias, and Elisha the prophet, and 
after baptism, Paul and Anthony, the first anchor- 
ites. 

“ Tell me, what were the streams that watered 
Paradise ? 

tell thee, they were four. The first was 
called Pison ; the second, Geon ; the third, Ti- 
gris ; the fourth, Euphrates ; that is, milk, and 
honey, and ale, and wine. 

‘‘Tell me, why is the sun red at evening? 

“ Ii tell thee, because he looks into Hell. 

“ Tell me, why shine th he so red in the morn 
ing? 


A nglo-Saxon L iterature 1 5 9 

“ I tell thee, because he doubteth whether he 
shall or shall not shine upon this earth, as he is 
commanded. 

‘‘Tell me, what four waters feed this earth ? 

“ I tell thee, they are snow, and rain, and hail, 
and dew. 

“Tell me, who first made letters ? 

“ I tell thee. Mercury the Giant.'^ 

Hardly less curious, and infinitely more val- 
uable, is a “ Colloquy '' of -^Ifric, composed 
for the purpose of teaching boys to speak 
Latin. The Saxon is an interlinear transla- 
tion of the Latin. In this Colloquy various 
laborers and handicraftsmen are introduced, 
— ploughmen, herdsmen, huntsmen, shoemak^ 
ers, and others ; and each has his say, even 
to the blacksmith, who dwells in his smithy 
amid iron fire-sparks and the sound of beat- 
ing sledge-hammers and blowing bellows. I 
translate the close of this Colloquy, to show 
our readers what a poor school-boy had to 
suffer in the Middle Ages. They will hardly 
wonder, that Erigena Scot should have been 
put to death with penknives by his scholars. 

“ Magister, Well, boy, what hast thou been do- 
(ng to-day ? 

“ Discipulus, A great many things have I been 


i6o 


Drift- Wood 


doing. Last night, when I heard the knell, I got 
out of my bed and went into the church, and sang 
the matin-song with the friars ; after that we sang 
the hymn of All Saints, and the morning songs of 
praise ; after these Prime, and the seven Psalms, 
with the litanies and the first Mass ; then the nine- 
o’clock service, and the mass for the day, and after 
this we sang the service of mid-day, and ate, and 
drank, and slept, and got up again, and sang 
Nones, and now are here before thee, ready to 
hear what thou hast to say to us. 

Magister, When will you sing Vespers or the 
Compline 1 

D is cipulus. When it is time. 

“ Magister. Hast thou had a whipping to-day ? 

Discipulus. I have not, because I have be-* 
haved very warily. 

Magister, And thy playmates ? 

Discipulus, Why dost thou ask me about 
them? I dare not tell thee our secrets. Each 
one of them knows whether he has been whipped 
or not. 

‘‘ Magister, What dost thou eat every day ? 

Discipulus, I still eat meat, because I am a 
child, living under the rod. 

“ Magister, What else dost thou eat ? 

‘‘ Discipulus, Greens and eggs, fish and cheese, 
butter and beans, and all clean things, with much 
thankfulness. 


A nglo-Saxon L iterature 1 6 1 

“ Magister. Exceedingly voracious art thou ; for 
thou devourest everything that is set before thee. 

Discipulus. Not so very voracious either, for 
I don’t eat all kinds of food at one meal. 

“ Magister, How then ? 

Discipulus, Sometimes I eat one kind, and 
sometimes another, with soberness, as becomes a 
monk, and not with voracity ; for I am not a glut- 
ton. 

“ Magister, And what dost thou drink ? 

‘‘ Discipulus, Beer, when I can get it, and wa- 
ter when I cannot get beer. 

‘‘ Magister, Dost thou not drink wine ? 

Discipulus, I am not rich enough to buy 
wine ; and wine is not a drink for boys and igno- 
rant people, but for old men and wise. 

Magister, Where dost thou sleep ? 

Discipulus, In the dormitory, with the friars. 

“ Magister. Who wakes thee for matins ? 

Discipulus. Sometimes I hear the knell and 
get up ; sometimes my master wakes me sternly 
with a rod. 

‘‘Magister. O ye good children, and winsome 
learners ! Your teacher admonishes you to fol- 
low godly lore, and to behave yourselves decently 
everywhere. Go obediently, when you hear the 
chapel bell, enter into the chapel, and bow sup- 
pliantly at the holy altars, and stand submissive, 
and sing with one accord, and pray for your sins. 


Drift-Wood 

and then depart to the cloister or the school-room 
without levity.” 

I cannot close this sketch of Anglo-Saxon 
Literature v^ithout expressing the hope, that 
what I have written may stir up riper wits 
than mine to the perfection of this rough- 
hewn work.'’ The history of this literature 
still remains to be written. How strange it 
is that so interesting a subject should wait 
so long for its historian ! 


PARIS IN THE SEVENTEENTH 
CENTURY 


1838 



HE age of Louis the Fourteenth is one 


of the most brilliant in history ; illustri- 
ous by its reign of seventy-two years and its 
hundred authors known to fame. The govern- 
ment of this monarch has been called ‘‘ a satire 
upon despotism.” His vanity was boundless : 
his magnificence equally so. The palaces of 
Marly and Versailles are monuments of his 
royal pride : equestrian statues, and his figure 
on one of the gates of Paris, represented as a 
naked Hercules, with a club in his hand and 
a flowing wig on his head, are monuments of 
his vanity and self-esteem. 

His court was the home of etiquette and 
the model of all courts. ‘‘It seemed,” says 
Voltaire, “ that Nature at that time took de- 
light in producing in France the greatest men 
in all the arts ; and of assembling at court 
the most beautiful men and women that had 


164 


Drift-Wood 


ever existed. But the king bore the palm 
away from all his courtiers by the grace of 
his figure and the majestic beauty of his coun- 
tenance ; the noble and winning sound of his 
voice gained over the hearts that his presence 
intimidated. His carriage was such as became 
him and his rank only, and would have been 
ridiculous in any other. The embarrassment 
he inspired in those who spoke with him 
flattered in secret the self-complacency with 
which he recognized his own superiority. The 
old officer, who became agitated and stammer- 
ed in asking a favor from him, and not being 
able to finish his discourse, exclaimed, ‘ Sire, I 
do not tremble so before your enemies ! ’ had 
no difficulty in obtaining the favor he asked. 

All about him was pomp and theatrical 
show. He invented a kind of livery, which 
it was held the greatest honor to wear ; a blue 
waistcoat embroidered with gold and silver ; 
— a mark of royal favor. To all around him 
he was courteous ; towards women chivalrous. 
He never passed even a chambermaid without 
touching his hat ; and always stood uncovered 
in the presence of a lady. When the disap- 
pointed Duke of Lauzun insulted him by 
breaking his sword in his presence, he raised 


Paris in the Seventeenth Century 

the window, and threw his cane into the court- 
yard, saying, I never should have forgiven 
myself if I had struck a gentleman/’ 

He seems, indeed, to have been a strange 
mixture of magnanimity and littleness ; — his 
gallantries veiled always in a show of decency ; 
severe ; capricious ; fond of pleasure ; hardly 
less fond of labor. One day we find him dash- 
ing from Vincennes to Paris in his hunting- 
dress, and standing in his great boots, with 
a whip in his hand, dismissing his Parliament 
as he would a pack of hounds. The next he 
is dancing in the ballet of his private theatre, 
in the character of a gypsy, and whistling or 
singing scraps of opera-songs ; and then pa- 
rading at a military review, or galloping at 
full speed through the park of Fontainebleau, 
hunting the deer, in a calash drawn by four 
ponies. Towards the close of his life he be- 
came a devotee. ‘Ht is a very remarkable 
thing,” says Voltaire, ^‘that the public, who 
forgave him all his mistresses, could not for- 
give him his father confessor.” He outlived 
the respect of his subjects. When he lay on 
his death-bed, — those godlike eyes that had 
overawed the world now grown dim and lus- 
treless, — all his courtiers left him to die alone, 


Drift- Wood 


1 66 

and thronged about his successor, the Duke 
of Orleans. An empiric gave him an elixir, 
which suddenly revived him. He ate once 
more, and it was said he could recover. The 
crowd about the Duke of Orleans diminished 
very fast. If the king eats a second time, I 
shall be left all alone,” said he. But the king 
ate no more. He died like a philosopher. To 
Madame de Maintenon he said, I thought it 
was more difficult to die ! and to his domes- 
tics, “ Why do you weep ? Did you think I 
was immortal ? ” 

Of course the character of the monarch 
stamped itself upon the society about him. 
The licentious court made a licentious city. 
Yet everywhere external decency and decorum 
prevailed. The courtesy of the old school 
held sway. Society, moreover, was pompous 
and artificial. There were pedantic scholars 
about town ; and learned women ; and Pr/- 
cieuses Ridicules, and Euphuism. With all 
its greatness, it was an effeminate age. 

The old city of Paris, which lies in the 
Marais, was once the court end of the town. 
It is now entirely deserted by wealth and 
fashion. Travellers even seldom find their 
way into its broad and silent streets. But 


Paris in the Seventeenth Century 167 

sightly mansions and garden walls, over which 
tall, shadowy trees wave to and fro, speak of 
a more splendid age, when proud and courtly 
ladies dwelt there, and the frequent wheels of 
gay equipages chafed the now grass-grown 
pavements. 

In the centre of this part of Paris, within 
pistol-shot of the Boulevard St. Antoine, 
stands the Place Royale. Old palaces of a 
quaint and uniform style, with a low arcade 
in front, run quite round the square. In its 
centre is a public walk, with trees, an iron 
railing, and an equestrian statue of Louis the 
Thirteenth. It was here that monarch held his 
court. But there is no sign of a court now. 
Under the arcade are shops and fruit-stalls; 
and in one corner sits a cobbler, seemingly as 
old and deaf as the walls around him. Oc- 
casionally you get a glimpse through a grated 
gate into spacious gardens ; and a large flight 
of steps leads up into what was once a royal 
palace, and is now a tavern. In the public 
walk old gentlemen sit under the trees on 
benches, and enjoy the evening air. Others 
walk up and down, buttoned in long frock- 
coats. They have all a provincial look. In- 
deed, for a time you imagine yourself in a 


Drift-Wood 


1 68 


small French town, not in Paris ; so different 
is everything there from the Paris you live in. 
You are in a quarter where people retire to 
live genteelly on small incomes. The gentle- 
men in long frock-coats are no courtiers, but 
retired tradesmen. 

Not far off is the Rue des Tournelles ; and 
the house is still standing in which lived and 
loved that Aspasia of the seventeenth century, 
— the celebrated Ninon de I’Enclos. From 
the Boulevard you look down into the garden, 
where her illegal and ill-fated son, on discov- 
ering that the object of his passion was his 
own mother, put an end to his miserable 
life. Not very remote from this is the house 
once occupied by Madame de Sevign6. You 
are shown the very cabinet where she com- 
posed those letters which beautified her na- 
tive tongue, and “ make us love the very ink 
that wrote them.” In a word, you are here 
in the centre of the Paris of the seventeenth 
century ; the gay, the witty, the licentious 
city, which in Louis the Fourteenth’s time 
was like Athens in the age of Pericles. And 
now all is changed to solitude and silence. 
The witty age, with its brightness and licen- 
tious heat, all burnt out, — puffed into dark- 


Paris in the Seventeenth Century 169 

ness by the breath of time. Thus passes an 
age of libertinism and sedition, and bloody, 
frivolous wars, and fighting bishops, and de- 
vout prostitutes, and “factious beaux esprits 
improvising epigrams in the midst of sedi- 
tions, and madrigals on the field of battle.'’ 

Westward from this quarter, near the Seine 
and the Louvre, stood the ever famous Hotel 
de Rambouillet, the court of Euphuism and 
false taste. Here Catherine de Vivonne, Mar- 
chioness of Rambouillet, gave her aesthetical 
soirees in her bedchamber, and she herself in 
bed, among the curtains and mirrors of a gay 
alcove. The master of ceremonies bore the 
title of the Alcoviste. He did the honors of 
the house and directed the conversation, and 
such was the fashion of the day, that, impos- 
sible as it may seem to us, no evil tongue 
soiled with malignant whisper the fair fame 
of the Pr^cieuses, as the ladies of the society 
were called. 

Into this bedchamber came all the most 
noted literary personages of the day ; — Cor- 
neille, Malherbe, Bossuet, Flechier, La Roche- 
foucault, Balzac, Bussy-Rabutin, Madame de 
Sevign^ Mademoiselle de Scud^ri, and others 
of less note, though hardly less pretension. 


Drift-Wood 


170 

They paid their homage to the Marchioness, 
under the title of Arth^nice, Eracinthe, and 
Carinth^e, anagrams of the name of Catherine. 
There, as in the Courts of Love of a still ear- 
lier age, were held grave dissertations, on friv- 
olous themes : and all the metaphysics of love, 
and the subtilties of exaggerated passion, were 
discussed with most puerile conceits and a 
vapid sentimentality. “We saw, not long 
since,” says La Bruy^re, “a circle of persons 
of the two sexes, united by conversation and 
mental sympathy. They left to the vulgar 
the art of speaking intelligibly. One obscure 
expression brought on another still more ob- 
scure, which in turn was capped by something 
truly enigmatical, attended with vast applause. 
With all this so-called delicacy, feeling, and 
refinement of expression, they at length went 
so far that they were neither understood by 
others nor could understand themselves. For 
these conversations one needed neither good 
sense, nor memory, nor the least capacity ; 
only esprit, and that not of the best, but a 
counterfeit kind, made up chiefly of imagina- 
tion.” 

Looking back from the present age, how 
very absurd all these .things seem to us ! Nev- 


Paris in the Seventeenth Century i/i 

ertheless, the minds of some excellent men 
were seriously inpressed with their worth ; 
and the pulpit-orator, Fl^chier, in his funeral 
oration upon the death of Madame de Mon- 
tausier, exclaimed, in pious enthusiasm : Re- 
member, my brethren, those cabinets which 
are still regarded with so much veneration, 
where the mind was purified, where virtue 
was revered under the name of the incom- 
parable Arth^nice, where were gathered to- 
gether so many personages of quality and 
merit, forming a select court, numerous with- 
out confusion, modest without constraint, 
learned without pride, polished without affec- 
tation.” 


TABLE-TALK 


T F you borrow my books, do not mark them ; 

for I shall not be able to distinguish your 
marks from my own, and the pages will be- 
come, like the doors -in Bagdad, marked by 
Morgiana’s chalk. 

Don Quixote thought he could have made 
beautiful bird-cages and toothpicks if his brain 
had not been so full of ideas of chivalry. 
Most people would succeed in small things, 
if they were not troubled with great ambitions. 

A torn jacket is soon mended ; but hard 
words bruise the heart of a child. 

Authors, in their Prefaces, generMly speak 
in a conciliatory, deprecating tone of the crit- 
ics, whom they hate and fear ; as of old the 
Greeks spake of the Furies as the Eumenides, 
the benign Goddesses. 


Table-Talk 


173 


Doubtless criticism was originally benig- 
nant, pointing out the beauties of a work, 
rather than its defects. The passions of men 
have made it malignant, as the bad heart of 
Procrustes turned the bed, the symbol of re- 
pose, into an instrument of torture. 

Popularity is only, in legal phrase, the '' in- 
stantaneous seisin ’’ of fame. 

The Mormons make the marriage ring, like 
the ring of Saturn, fluid, not solid, and keep 
it in its place by numerous satellites. 

In the mouths of many men soft words are 
like roses that soldiers put into the muzzles of 
their muskets on holidays. 

We often excuse our own want of philan- 
thropy by giving the name of fanaticism to 
the more ardent zeal of others. 

Every great poem is in itself limited by 
necessity, — but in its suggestions unlimited 
and infinite. 

If we could read the secret history of our 
enemies, we should find in each man’s life 


1 74 Drift- Wood 

sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all 
hostility. 

As turning the logs will make a dull fire 
burn, so change of studies a dull brain. 

The Laws of Nature are just, but terrible. 
There is no weak mercy in them. Cause and 
consequence are inseparable and inevitable. 
The elements have no forbearance. The fire 
burns, the water drowns, the air consumes, 
the earth buries. And perhaps it would be 
well for our race if the punishment of crimes 
against the Laws of Man were as inevitable 
as the punishment of crimes against the Laws 
of Nature, — were Man as unerring in his 
judgments as Nature. ^ 

Round about what is, lies a whole mysteri- 
ous world of what might be, — a psychological 
romance of possibilities and things that do not 
happen. By going out a few minutes sooner 
or later, by stopping to speak with a friend at 
a corner, by meeting this man or that, or by 
turning down this street instead of the other, 
we may let slip some great occasion of good, 
or avoid some impending evil, by which the 


Table-Talk 


175 


whole current of our lives would have been 
changed. There is no possible solution to 
the dark enigma but the one word, “Provi- 
dence.” 

The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill 
crowned with sunshine and visited by the 
Muses and the Graces, but an old, mouldering 
house, full of gloom and haunted by ghosts. 

“ Let us build such a church, that those 
who come after us shall take us for madmen,” 
said the old canon of Seville, when the great 
cathedral was planned. Perhaps through every 
mind passes some such thought, when it first 
entertains the design of a great and seemingly 
impossible action, the end of which it dimly 
foresees. This divine madness enters more 
or less into all our noblest undertakings. 

. I feel a kind of reverence for the first books 
of young authors. There is so much aspira- 
tion in them, so much audacious hope and 
trembling fear, so much of the heart’s history, 
that all errors and short-comings are for a 
while lost sight of in the amiable self-assertion 
of youth. 


1/6 


Drift- Wood 


Authors have a greater right than any copy- 
right, though it is generally unacknowledged 
or disregarded. They have a right to the 
reader’s civility. There are favorable hours 
for reading a book, as for writing it, and to 
these the author has a claim. Yet many peo- 
ple think, that when they buy a book, they 
buy with it the right to abuse the author. 

A thought often makes us hotter than a 
fire. 

Black seals upon letters, like the black sails 
of the Greeks, are signs of bad tidings and ill 
success. 

Love makes its record in deeper colors as 
we grow out of childhood into manhood ; as 
the Emperors signed their names in green ink 
when under age, but when of age, in purple. 

Some critics are like chimney-sweepers ; 
they put out the fire below, or frighten the 
swallows from their nests above ; they scrape 
a long time in the chimney, cover themselves 
with soot, and bring nothing away but a bag 
of cinders, and then sing from the top of the 
house as if they had built it. 


Table-Talk 


177 


When we reflect that all the aspects of 
Nature, all the emotions of the soul, and all 
the events of life, have been the subjects of 
poetry for hundreds and thousands of years, 
we can hardly wonder that there should be so 
many resemblances and coincidences of ex- 
pression among poets, but rather that they 
are not more numerous and more striking. 

The first pressure of sorrow crushes out 
from our hearts the best wine ; afterwards the 
constant weight of it brings forth bitterness, — 
the taste and stain from the lees of the vat. 

The tragic element in poetry is like Saturn 
in alchemy, — the Malevolent, the Destroyer 
of Nature ; but without it no true Aurum 
Potabile, or Elixir of Life, can be made. 


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